


The Plight of the Elves

by cranperryjuice



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues (mild - see notes), F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Toussaint (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranperryjuice/pseuds/cranperryjuice
Summary: Iorveth shows up at Corvo Bianco, injured, and ghosts from Toussaint's past set into motion an unlikely chain of events.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Iorveth, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 29
Kudos: 66





	The Plight of the Elves

**Author's Note:**

> Tiny content warning: Geralt uses Axii in a questionable way during a flashback, which leads to a bit of a consent issue that's immediately discussed and resolved between the two characters. Skip the prison barge scene if you're not comfortable reading about this -- you'll still be able to follow the story just fine.

The acrid smell of burning herbs cut through the scent of grapes and white myrtle like a silver blade through nekker flesh. Geralt breathed in the early morning air and bent forward, leaning on the balustrade to peer over his still-deserted estate. No early risers today; not after the Feast of Blessed Ceslaus. Barnabas-Basil had recommended that he let the farmhands nurse their aching heads and resume their work that afternoon. Geralt still knew little about wine, but he figured the grape-laden vines would survive one day without constant attention. Probably.

And there it was — a solitary curl of smoke, snaking its way over the treetops near the edge of the estate. It disappeared into the wind and Geralt breathed deeply again. The smell seemed ill-fitted for Toussaint, reminding him instead of grim Redania and of Novigrad's back-alleys.

 _Celandine_ , he realized as he stepped past Roach's enclosure (she lifted her head and snorted at him between two mouthfuls of hay). _Poppy._ He followed a low stone wall past the rows of vines and to a small meadow where a few trees stood.

The smoke tickled his nose. _Henbane._ Someone must have been hurting badly to smoke that particular blend. He stepped over the wall, silent, and crept through the grass until he could see a figure sitting against the largest of the trees. The man's head lolled forward onto his chest — he was no longer hurting, judging by the pipe that now lay smoldering at his side — and he wrapped his stained travelling cloak tighter around himself despite the sunlight that dappled the ground around him.

The peacock that haunted the estate had, absurdly, settled down a few feet away from the stranger. Maybe it was enjoying the fumes. Geralt approached. "What," he started, but before he could voice the question, the fat bird stood and ran off with an angry squawk, and then a cat darted out from under the man's cloak, hissed at him, and fled into the tall grass.

The stranger lifted his head, startled. His one eye focused on Geralt... and he was no stranger after all. "Gwynbleidd," he said slowly, smiling even as his eye slid closed again. "They said you'd be here."

"They?"

"Everyone." Iorveth made a vague gesture with his free hand, then carefully lowered it to hold onto the tree trunk instead. "Hero, they said... Savior of Beauclair... You've made many friends here." He tilted his head up toward him but didn't quite manage to open his eye. The sunlight caught something bright — a sword feather from that idiot bird, pinned next to the pheasant feather that already adorned the red cloth on his head.

Geralt crouched in front of him. "So have you, from the looks of it."

Iorveth managed a confused squint up at him, and Geralt gave the bright feather a flick. He let out something that was half-laugh, half-groan, then curled up on himself, pressing his hand to his side. The smell of blood wafted up from under his clothes, obvious even under the burnt herbs. "Or maybe not. Who did this?"

" _Bloede dh'oine_ ," Iorveth muttered, unhelpful. His eye slid out of focus again and he slumped further down against the tree. Geralt wasn't sure whether he'd passed out or fallen asleep. He looked thin and travel-worn — gods only knew how or why he'd come so far south. He watched Iorveth for a few moments, then shook his head, stuck his abandoned pipe into one corner of his mouth, and gathered him into his arms for the trek back to the house.

Yen was going to love this.

***

"This is the handsome elf who swayed you from Roche's side? Honestly, Geralt." Yen reached down, checked Iorveth for fever.

"Don't remember calling him handsome." Not for the first time, he considered the idea that Yen was reading his mind like an open book, then chased the thought away with a shake of his head. "... No infection. For now."

"Though I must admit he has been blessed with _sinful_ cheekbones."

Like an open book. " _Yen._ "

"A poultice would help," she offered. "Calendula."

Geralt bent closer to Iorveth's side. The edges of the long wound that marred his skin were clean. A well-sharpened sword, most likely. "Mm. And naezan salts." He looked over Iorveth's body once more, mentally cataloguing his injuries. The one on his side was the worst by far, but he also had a few shallower cuts on one of his arms — defensive wounds. There were bruises, too, dappling one of his hips and painting the leaves tattooed on his shoulder in angry shades of purplish-red and yellow. Geralt figured they were a couple of days old. "Could you," he started to say, but when he raised his head Yen was already gone.

He turned and surveyed the haphazard pile they'd made of Iorveth's belongings. The leather of his armor was stained dark with dried blood, the chainmail patched and broken again in several places. He'd kept his bow in good shape, but when Geralt checked his swords and the knife attached to his jerkin, he found all three dull and dirty.

The emblems attached to the strap of his quiver caught Geralt's eye. He couldn't remember how many Iorveth had had on there in the past — four, five? He recognized the deep blue and shining silver of Roche's Temerian lilies, now tarnished and bent at one corner, and frowned. Iorveth had finally managed to put an end to their long-lasting rivalry, he supposed. A waste. Something to ask Iorveth about when he woke up, though; with no Roche to needle him, perhaps simple boredom had brought him to Toussaint.

The bag Iorveth had been carrying didn't provide much in the way of information. It was from Toussaint, made of good quality deerskin embossed with vines. Almost certainly stolen. He found a bruised pear, an empty waterskin and some arrowheads inside. Giving up on his search with a shake of his head, he turned back to Iorveth and finished stripping him instead. His shirt was blood-stained and torn beyond repair, but the rest he set aside for cleaning.

Yennefer came back with a bowl of greenish poultice that sent a tingle of magic through his fingertips when he reached for it. She smacked his hand away, holding the bowl to her chest protectively. " _Geralt_ , your hands are filthy. His swords need repair, why don't you go take care of them?"

"Fine." He grabbed the two scabbards and the pile of clothes, but hesitated at the top of the stairs, watching Yen's back as she applied the poultice. "He won't want it to scar," he said. "His face is already—"

"Yes, yes." She sounded annoyed at the interruption, but then lowered her head, hands pressed to the wound, and there was something thoughtful in the brief silence that followed. "I suppose not all of us have the luxury of glamor spells. I'll reduce the scarring as much as possible."

***

Geralt stepped back inside several hours later, with Iorveth's clothes drying outside and the twin swords slung over his shoulder in their now-spotless scabbards. He found Yennefer sitting on the stairs, face pale and fingers clenched around the wooden step. His medallion trembled from the residual magic clinging to her when he approached. "Yen?"

"I'm fine."

"Healing spells didn't go well?"

"They've never been my specialty. Still, the scarring will be minimal." She rolled her head slowly and reached up to rub at the back of her neck. "But I can't do anything for the pain, it would interfere with—"

"You've done enough. Can you stand?"

Her mouth thinned. "Do you take me for some backwater purveyor of good luck charms and contraceptive potions? I am perfectly fine."

She, of course, couldn't stand. Geralt got her into bed and talked her into most of a mug of barley tea before she sank into a very deep, very still sleep.

She and Iorveth both slept all night. Geralt tried rousing her late the following morning, but she only growled at him incoherently and hid her head under her pillow. He left her to her magic hangover and went out, sword in hand, to run through a few drills.

"Geralt," Marlene called out later, head poking out from the doorway, "your friend is asking for you."

He sheathed his sword and headed back inside. "How is he?"

"He's in a lot of pain, the poor dear. He awoke half an hour ago. So dreadfully thin — elf or not, we'll have to get some meat on his bones while he's staying here. He did have some broth earlier, but—"

"Uh-huh," Geralt replied distractedly as he took the stairs two by two. Iorveth was sitting up in bed, leaning back against the wall with a blanket half covering him, puffing away at his pipe. He grimaced at Geralt in greeting.

The herbs were stinking up the room, but Geralt breathed in deeply enough to pick up the scent of the poultice, and underneath it the fainter hints of sweat and drying blood. The wound smelled clean.

"It's poppy and celandine," Iorveth said needlessly, thick smoke escaping his mouth with every word.

"And henbane. I know. I was smelling you, not the pipe." He sat on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Oh, splendid," he hissed through his teeth. "I awoke with a wrinkled old dh'oine hovering over me like a bat, and now a witcher wants to _smell_ me. Have you turned from wolf to actual dog since our last meeting?"

Well. Iorveth had never been one to bear discomfort gracefully — at least not when he wasn't standing on a battlefield. "I was smelling for infection," Geralt replied, keeping his tone mild as he sat on the edge of the bed, "but I can rip off that bandage and have a look if you prefer."

Iorveth gave him a sour look and took another deep drag from his pipe.

"I'll help you relax until the herbs kick in. Don't fight me." He raised one hand and waited for Iorveth's nod before casting _Axii_. "Doesn't hurt so much anymore, does it?"

"Mmm. Still hurts," Iorveth insisted, frowning. His shoulders had relaxed, though, and he soon sank back against the pillows piled up behind him with a smoky sigh. He closed his eye, and Geralt looked his fill. Yennefer's spell hadn't helped with the bruising and the minor cuts on his skin. Blood tinted greenish brown by the poultice had even seeped through the bandage on his torso, in fact, and Geralt would've doubted her skill were it not for the faint hum of magic that still emanated from the wound. _Something_ was working away at it.

"Still hurts," Iorveth muttered again. Geralt would've bet it was purely on principle this time.

"Only hurts a little bit, though." He nudged an unmarred spot on Iorveth's arm. "That broth smells good. You should drink it."

Iorveth reached for the half-empty bowl, eye still closed, and drank from it in slow, mechanical sips until it was empty. He opened his eye and blinked at Geralt over the wooden rim as if seeing him for the first time.

"Better?"

"Yes," he said automatically, then glared. " _No_. I hate this vatt'ghern nonsense. It feels like someone stuffed my head with hay." He set down the bowl, his movements clumsy. Geralt knew it wasn't just his Sign, by now — the henbane and poppy were starting to kick in.

"Stop fighting it. Tell me how Roche died," he suggested, hoping the sudden change of topic would help distract Iorveth.

"Roche is dead?" Iorveth replied with mild interest. "Good riddance."

"Isn't that his emblem on your quiver?" He glanced down at it where it still lay on the floor. The trophies taken from Northern generals had been cleaned and polished to a spotless shine. Marlene's work, no doubt. So she _had_ been hovering over Iorveth as he slept.

"Yes. And I don't know where he is now, but he was still very much alive when he threw it at me."

Geralt smiled at the image his mind provided. "Roche Vernon _threw_ his Temerian lilies at you?"

"He even shouted 'to hell with Temeria' as he was doing it." Iorveth's lips trembled with repressed laughter. "I assure you it wasn't nearly as funny as it sounds now. Left a nasty bruise on my forehead."

Marlene interrupted them with a bowl of thin gruel and boiled vegetables for Iorveth, and Geralt extracted the story from him bit by bit as he ate. Roche had tracked him down shortly after Emhyr had sent his troops marching up from Nilfgaard, and tried to convince him to join his efforts to unite the North against the invading force. Perhaps in a different world, Iorveth would have been the one to deal the killing blow to King Radovid. As it was, he had spat in Roche's face and told him he'd enjoy watching Temeria burn to ashes under the Black Sun.

Geralt sometimes wondered at Iorveth's continued existence; considering the mouth on him, he should've been dead decades ago. The continent would be duller without him in it, though, and Geralt was glad see him well.

Or more or less well, anyway — the food and short conversation had been enough to tire him out again. Geralt gathered up the empty bowls and left him to his rest.

***

It took Geralt taking off his boots and crawling into bed next to Yen later that afternoon to finally rouse her from her slumber. He drew her close to him and nosed his way to the back of her neck, breathing in the gooseberry and lilac and running his hand over her sleep-warm skin. She stirred in his arms, finally, and he pressed a kiss into her hair. "Good afternoon."

She mumbled something indistinct into her pillow. Geralt gave her a few minutes, caressing her stomach. "Afternoon?" she eventually repeated, yawning.

"Yeah. How do you feel?"

"Much better. How is your pet terrorist?" she asked.

Geralt bit at her neck gently. "He's not my anything."

"And people actually _believe_ your lies." She stretched out and turned onto her back. There was nothing but gentle amusement in her eyes. "Geralt of Rivia, falling for a man. They'll have to rewrite all the ballads."

"You seem pretty sure of yourself."

"Am I wrong?"

Geralt could have lied again. He had a feeling that if he did, though, she'd keep needling him... or read his mind for real. "It was a long time ago."

"Hmm. Did you bond over your mutual passion for nonhuman rights? Or was it his skill with those swords that set your loins aflame?" She grinned at him, undeterred by the look he gave her, and burrowed closer to him. "Oh, please, humor me. I've run out of good books."

Geralt blew out an amused breath. "Fine."

***

Geralt heard it just as he was about to fall asleep, whisper-quiet through the walls of Flotsam's dingy inn. A bird's call, all wrong for that hour of the night. He stared up at the ceiling until he heard it again — and this time he recognized it as skillful mimicry.

He threw back the flimsy blanket and pulled on his clothes, then made his way out of the inn. The whistling rose again a minute later, guiding him through the muddy streets and to the nearest gate. He nodded to the pair of sleepy-looking guards and slipped out of the village.

He crept along the palisade until he found the source of the call: Iorveth was sitting with his back to the wooden pickets, nearly invisible in the shadows. He licked his lips and breathed in, but stopped himself when he spotted Geralt. "Ah. You weren't lying about your sense of hearing."

Geralt shook his head. He listened for other Scoia'tael, up in the trees around them, but all was quiet. "You're alone."

"Should I be concerned for my safety?" Iorveth retorted.

"No."

The elf narrowed his eye at him, seemingly taken aback by the simple reply. Geralt stepped closer and crouched in front of him, leaving a bit of distance between them. Iorveth kept scrutinizing him for several moments before finally speaking again. "I heard Cedric died."

"Yes. Fighting Letho. He died out there, by the water." Geralt gestured behind himself, toward the forest. Iorveth's face betrayed no emotion. He was usually _thrumming_ with righteous anger; the stillness was more disquieting than sadness would've been. "Told the guards where to find his body. They took him back to Flotsam. I didn't think you'd—"

Iorveth shrugged away his concern. "Better to have him buried where he belongs," he muttered, trying for his usual disdain and falling short.

Geralt sat back onto the cool leaves. So he and Cedric had been close at one time. Perhaps lovers — in that, at least, Iorveth was easy to read. There'd been a spark of interest in his eye when Geralt had demonstrated his knowledge of the Elder Speech, for all that he'd tried to cover it up with sarcastic applause.

"That all you wanted to know? Can't have called me over just to see my pretty eyes."

"What does Roche want from you?"

Geralt shrugged. "Ask me something I can tell you."

"If you side with him, he'll have you hunt us down."

"I heard him out. Never said I'd side with him."

Iorveth produced a long, thin pipe and started packing it with sweet-smelling herbs. "We can't wait forever. The prisoners will be freed tomorrow, with or without your help."

"How?"

He snorted. "I can't tell you that, can I." He retrieved a flint striker from one of his pockets. Geralt, on impulse, focused on the bowl of the pipe and flicked his hand toward it.

Iorveth scrambled away so fast that the small burst of flame missed the pipe entirely and hit the moist earth where he'd been sitting. Geralt laughed. He stood and stamped out the smoldering leaves, then crouched down again next to Iorveth. "Stay still."

Iorveth glared at him, but stuck his pipe into his mouth and obeyed nonetheless. Another quick wave of Geralt's hand and the herbs were lit. "Impressive little trick," he said, breathing out smoke into Geralt's face.

"Lavender and althea flowers?"

"With a touch of honey." One corner of Iorveth's mouth lifted slightly. "I suppose vatt'ghern have a dog's sense of smell to go with their cat eyes. Those are quite off-putting at night, by the way," he added. "Are you done showing off?"

Geralt hadn't expected to enjoy the hint of mirth on Iorveth's face quite this much. "I don't know — I have other skills," he offered, watching him carefully for a reaction.

Iorveth took a slow drag from his pipe before answering. His fine bones and angry ideals made him look deceptively young; Geralt reminded himself that Iorveth had had over a century to perfect his dice poker face. "You're trying to get information from me."

"You're the one who called me out here in the middle of the night." Geralt moved closer, planted one knee on either side of one of Iorveth's legs. "Just passing the time."

Iorveth's mouth was set in a thin, straight line. Geralt placed one hand on his neck and ran his thumb down one of the branches inked on his skin. He could _feel_ it now, in the heat coming off the elf's body and the rapid beats of his heart, and knew he hadn't misread his interest.

He'd done this before, in leaner times — harmless flirting to get better payment from men who'd needed a witcher and had eyed him with something other than revulsion. There was no money to be gained, here, and Iorveth was too clever to reveal any secrets. Still, having a Scoia'tael leader wrapped around his finger could turn out to be useful.

"You're ridiculous," Iorveth muttered in the Elder Speech, sweet smoke rising between them. His eyelashes flicked down, the moon throwing their spiked shadows on his cheek; he was looking at Geralt's mouth. Geralt slid his hand up to his jaw and pulled him forward encouragingly.

***

"And?"

"And what?" Geralt murmured into Yennefer's ear.

"That's it? You kissed?"

"Mmhm. Wasn't bad. Then I told him I'd meet him the next day to help with the—"

She laughed. "You're terrible at this."

"You wanted to know how it started."

"And that's it? A chaste, innocent love? Kisses under the Flotsam moonlight?"

"You shouldn't make fun of witchers and Scoia'tael." He gave her hip a firm squeeze for good measure.

"Yes, I'm terrified." She elbowed him. "Just skip ahead to the _good_ part."

***

Iorveth's entire unit had crammed themselves onto the prison barge; when Geralt heard the quiet bird call at dawn, he had to step carefully past half a dozen Scoia'tael and over a snoring Dandelion before making his way up to the deck.

Iorveth stood waiting in the doorway to the captain's cabin (which he'd claimed in no uncertain terms the previous night), looking much less imposing in green trousers and a loose-fitting, unbleached linen shirt than he did wrapped in his usual layers of padded cloth and chainmail.

"You're obedient for a dh'oine," he said as he stepped back to let Geralt in.

Geralt let the remark slide and closed the door behind himself. Iorveth's cheeks were still a little flushed from sleep. It wasn't a bad look on him.

"Dandelion told me about the Rivian pogrom."

"Did he?" Geralt leaned back against the closed door and crossed his arms. He'd missed a large chunk of the previous evening, had tuned out the clinking bottles and rolling dice and lost himself to meditation in one of the cells.

"It seems I may have been... hasty in my judgment. When you arrived in Flotsam." Iorveth spoke as if each word took considerable effort. It was probably the case.

"Is this an apology?" Geralt prompted, enjoying himself.

" _Yes,_ " he said, with a hint of irritation. "We seem to be working toward common goals."

"We might be. But your tactics are disgusting."

Iorveth paused, then sneered at him and drew in a sharp breath, another rant about dh'oine undoubtedly at the tip of his tongue. Geralt moved his fingers and _Axii_ washed over the small cabin — just enough to leave his eye blank and his mouth slack. A few steps and a push were all Geralt needed to reverse their positions, pinning Iorveth against the door with a hand on his chest. He waited for Iorveth to knit his brows in confusion, consciousness returning to him, before kissing him.

The Sign had left him open and pliant. Geralt felt Iorveth's low moan on his tongue and strong fingers at his collar, pulling him closer, pressing their faces together. Feeling the effect he'd been having on the elf, unrestrained by his pride, was as heady as a fine wine; desire curled in his stomach, unexpectedly. 

He bit his way down the smooth line of Iorveth's neck and licked along his collarbone, pulling his shirt aside to reveal more of the black-brown leaves. Iorveth tangled his fingers into Geralt's hair — holding him there, at first, but then his body stiffened and Geralt was yanked away instead.

"Speaking of disgusting tactics," Iorveth said, breathless and deliciously angry. His ear and cheeks were as pink as the half-moon imprints of Geralt's teeth on his neck.

Geralt shrugged and shook his hair free of Iorveth's grip. "I'll leave if you say you want me to," he replied, leaving the rest unsaid: _But I know you don't._

A moment passed with no movement from the elf. He finally gave Geralt a shove toward the bed, then turned around to throw the rusty iron bolt on the cabin's door. His hiss of " _bloede vatt'ghern_ " wouldn't have reached Geralt's ears had he not been a witcher. He smiled as he sat on the small, creaking bed.

Iorveth whirled back to face him, pulled his shirt off, then, to Geralt's surprise, removed the red cloth from his head and flung it to the floor. He glared down at Geralt as if daring him to comment, messy hair falling into his face. The missing eye wasn't pretty, but standing there in the dim light that filtered through the cabin's dirty window, Iorveth almost looked like some proud, scarred relict creature Geralt might've caught a glimpse of in the depths of a forest.

The thin trunk tattooed down his side parted into roots at his hip and disappeared into his trousers, like the splayed fingers of a lover; Geralt found those more worthy of his attention than the scars were. He hooked a hand behind Iorveth's thigh and tugged him closer to run his tongue up one of the roots. Iorveth's breath hitched above him and his fingers returned to his hair, gentler than before as he pulled it free of its half-ponytail.

The bed groaned under their combined weight when Iorveth straddled his lap. Geralt saw more inked leaves at the edge of his vision and turned his head to kiss them, right above the crook of Iorveth's elbow. "Always liked Aen Seidhe art."

Iorveth pulled on his hair, forcing his head up. "Shut up," he said exasperatedly before kissing him. Geralt laughed into his mouth and rolled him over onto the hard mattress, earning himself a sharp bite to the lower lip. Even as Iorveth bit, though, one of his legs wrapped itself around Geralt, his heel digging into the back of Geralt's thigh as he arched up against him. He was hard already. Geralt settled his weight on Iorveth and ground against him until he was panting into his mouth, writhing to meet his thrusts.

He sat up and made quick work of the laces on both their trousers, then took their cocks in hand. Iorveth's impatient squirming pressed the flushed head of his cock against the underside of Geralt's, and his head tilted back into the pillow, his mouth opening on a silent moan. It made Geralt wonder, as he stroked them both, whether Iorveth would be able to stay quiet with Geralt's cock inside of him. The thought sent a curious shiver through him and he filed it away for later, quickening the pace of his hand. His grip grew slick from Iorveth's leaking cock. A dusty beam of morning light fell across him, highlighting the lean muscles of his abdomen, painting the sparse hair on his chest gold.

The word _beautiful_ sprung to Geralt's mind unbidden, and he gritted his teeth through the white-hot flare of pleasure that snuck up on him, mindful of the sleeping elves outside of the cabin. Iorveth followed suit a moment later, his grip vise-tight on Geralt's wrist and his brow furrowed as he found his release.

He looked up at Geralt afterwards, chest heaving, his green eye as hazy as if he'd been hit with _Axii_ again. The strength of his hand on Geralt's arm felt unfamiliar, as did the way their bodies fit together, but that look he knew well; he always liked seeing how much pleasure he'd brought his lovers. He shifted his grip and kept stroking his own cock idly as Iorveth relaxed under him, his fingertips tracing their way up and down a scar on his arm.

"So it's true what they say about witchers," he remarked, his gaze sliding down to Geralt's still-erect cock.

"Don't know what you've heard," Geralt replied, "but yeah, probably."

"I prefer this to the cat eyes," Iorveth said, then sat up and flipped them over. Geralt could've stopped him easily but didn't, a quiet huff of laughter escaping him as his back hit the mattress. Iorveth's mouth closed around his nipple, a lazy flick of his tongue cutting his laughter short. He continued downward, biting at unscarred patches of skin along his ribcage, then running his tongue up one of the old claw marks near his hip, and Geralt squeezed his shoulder in encouragement when he realized where his mouth was heading.

***

Yen muffled her moan into her pillow, thighs clenched tight around Geralt's head, muscles spasming around his fingers. He'd had to give up on the tale when he'd noticed her squirming distractedly.

"Oh— I take it back, you're wonderful at this," she breathed, letting her legs slide back to the mattress.

"Thought you didn't like hearing about my past conquests." He licked at her one last time, flattening his tongue against her, just to feel her clench again as he withdrew his fingers.

"A quick tryst on a boat is hardly the same as a months-long affair with Triss Merigold." The mention of Triss would've injected venom into her voice at any other time, but for once she seemed too satisfied to bother. "You two must have made such a pretty picture."

She was still a little out of breath, her skin glowing with sweat and her hair spread around her like a messy halo. Geralt shifted uncomfortably against the mattress and reached down to free his cock from his trousers. "You're prettier," he said, crawling his way up. Yen met him in a slow, lazy kiss, but then let her head drop back down, and the sudden, wicked gleam in her eyes made Geralt freeze with his hand around his cock.

"I think I'll go back to sleep," she announced.

"What? You just woke up."

"Mm, yes, and now you've worn me out. Why don't you go play with your elf?"

He groaned, understanding where this was going, and dropped his forehead to her shoulder. "Yen. He's barely conscious."

"Then I suppose you'll have to wait, won't you?"

***

Barnabas-Basil found him in the blissfully cool stream than ran along the back of the estate. "Er, Geralt? I heard some splashing. Are you—"

"Go away," he growled.

***

The familiar sound of Iorveth's flute drew Geralt back up to the guest room the following afternoon. A tub had been brought up some time ago, and it seemed Iorveth had been enjoying another dose of his homemade medicine along with the hot water. He played with his eye closed, the tip of the instrument dipping into the water with each lazy movement of his head.

Geralt leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and watched him for a few more moments. He remembered Iorveth being much more skilled with the instrument, but the herbs were likely to blame for his clumsy fingers. "Keep that up and Yen will come up to kill you before you can fall asleep and drown."

Iorveth opened his eye halfway, and a lazy smile curled his lips. "Geralt." The flute dipped further into the water before he noticed and set it down precariously on the edge of the tub.

"No use trying to talk to you right now, huh?"

"No... but you're welcome to try, friend."

Geralt took a seat on the low bench that had been pulled away from the wall to hold Iorveth's pipe and an expensive-looking bottle within his reach. Geralt held the latter up to the candlelight. It was a vivid green herb cordial Barnabas-Basil was rather fond of. He didn't care for it; reminded him of potions. "Ever gonna tell me who slashed you? They come knocking at my door, I'd like to be ready."

"Some dh'oine in a big golden armor." Iorveth stretched one arm out toward the bottle, dripping water on Geralt's trousers.

Geralt took a swig of cordial that he mostly regretted before handing it over. "You just described half the knights in the duchy."

Iorveth shrugged and brought the bottle to his lips, knocking his flute into the sudsy water in the process.

"That can't be good for the wood."

"The wood?" He blinked at Geralt, uncomprehending, and set the bottle down with a loud thump.

Geralt didn't know why he was bothering, but he started rolling up one of his sleeves all the same. "Your flute."

"What about it?"

Forearm bared, Geralt sighed and leaned forward, reaching into the water. The instrument was caught between Iorveth's thigh and the side of the tub. He retrieved it and set it down on the bench, where it'd be safe — provided Iorveth didn't decide to splash about or knock the cordial over.

He decided, instead, to run his wet fingertips over Geralt's face. "I've missed you," he muttered, eye at half-mast but focused, more or less, on him.

"Gathered as much." Geralt wasn't sure what to make of the elf's affection. It had made more sense with war looming over them — a simple reprieve from the chaos. Here, though, with nothing but peaceful vineyards for acres around and Yen lazing around downstairs, Iorveth's presence felt incongruous. What could he be fleeing from, this time?

Iorveth's fingers slid down his face and scrabbled inefficiently at his shoulder before grabbing at the edge of the tub. His eye was closed tightly, now, and his laughter was unsteady as he let his head fall back. "Spinning."

"Went too heavy on the henbane." Geralt didn't even need to smell his pipe to know; the room reeked of it. Hit by sudden fondness for the addled elf, he stroked one of the bony knees that poked out of the water and watched him ride out the wave of dizziness. "Stay," he said once Iorveth had loosened his death grip on the tub, then stood and headed downstairs.

Barnabas-Basil was seated at the table, writing something by the light of a candle. He looked up and nodded in greeting.

"More hot water," Geralt requested, pointing up. Then he walked over to the kitchen, where he'd left a few bundles of herbs and a jar of naezan salts. By the time he made his way back up with a fresh batch of poultice, steam was rising from the tub and Iorveth sat examining his pruned fingertips with mild interest. It seemed the spinning had stopped, at least. Geralt sat on the bench again, set the poultice down by his side. "Feeling better?"

"Mm." His eye fell to the bowl of poultice, then flicked up to his face. "Thank you."

Geralt dismissed the words with a shrug and leaned forward to rest his chin on his crossed arms over the edge of the tub. The candles that lit the dim room cast a warm glow over Iorveth's skin, made him look healthier than he'd had in full daylight. He was still too thin, though. A few weeks at Corvo Bianco would fix that, provided he had nowhere better to go. "What are you doing in Toussaint?"

"I tire of the troubles in the north."

Saskia's free state was no more, Geralt knew. He'd heard of Vergen's destruction and had mourned the city over several pints with some dwarves he'd run into at the Clever Clogs. They, like Geralt, had assumed Iorveth had been killed. He was glad once again for the elf's slipperiness. "So you found trouble in the south instead?"

Iorveth smiled faintly. "I wasn't looking for it, this time. A group of dh'oine stole my horse and supplies on my way down the mountains."

"The one in gold armor their leader?"

"No." Iorveth sighed and sank further into the water, his eye fluttering shut. "These are good herbs, Gwynbleidd. I'd like to enjoy them while they last."

Geralt dropped the subject — he suspected he'd find out more about Iorveth's pursuers soon enough, anyway. "Fine. Will you join us for dinner tonight?"

"Yes, probably."

***

Iorveth still smelled strongly of smoke when he trudged down the stairs that evening, but at least his eye was sharp — he'd been a bit more careful with the dosage. Yen and Geralt were already seated face to face, bowls of beef stew and hunks of leftover bread in front of them. "Good evening," he told Yen, a little stiffly, before sitting down at one end of the table.

"How is the pain?"

"Manageable. Thank you."

Marlene came out of the kitchen with another bowl of stew. The smell made Geralt lean over to peer at its contents. A cream stew, thick with potatoes and leeks. He caught Marlene's eye as she put down the bowl in front of Iorveth and frowned at her in askance. "What? Oh, the stew? Elves can't eat meat with those little teeth of theirs; that's what my mother always said."

Iorveth's head snapped up. "What—"

"I made this one just for you, dear, without any meat at all."

"What is this _stupid_ dh'oine raving about?"

"Iorveth!" Yennefer exclaimed before Geralt could. He settled for giving him a firm kick under the table. Iorveth flinched and frowned down at his stew.

Marlene looked crestfallen. "I meant no insult, master elf. I thought—"

"I apologize," Iorveth cut in. "Thank you for the food."

"Your mother was right, Marlene, elves don't have canine teeth." The glare Yen aimed at Iorveth could've carved another scar right into his face. "But they do eat meat."

"Oh. Well..." Marlene's hands twisted into her apron but she smiled gamely at Iorveth's downturned profile. "I'll bring more beef stew if you pref—"

"No. This is fine. Thank you," he muttered again, fiddling with his spoon.

Geralt couldn't tell whether he was showing genuine regret or simply embarrassed anger at being scolded. He picked up his own spoon. "Go easy on him, Yen. He's in pain."

Yen rolled her eyes at him from across the table, but let the topic drop and started to eat. Iorveth clearly didn't mind the potatoes and leeks; he took a first bite, closed his eye in obvious pleasure, then started gobbling down the food like a starving man. Geralt supposed he hadn't had many warm, home-cooked meals over the past few... weeks? Months?

He abandoned that depressing line of thought when Yen caught his eye and raised her eyebrows at him. She was trying not to laugh at Iorveth's table manners. Better than being angry, he supposed.

"Will you be staying in Toussaint for long, Iorveth?" she asked pleasantly before taking a small, rather pointed bite of stew.

Iorveth finished scraping the last of his stew into his mouth and set his spoon and bowl down before answering. "I don't know."

"Well. There are beautiful elven ruins within a day's travel of the vineyard. You should consider visiting some of them once your wounds have healed. I'm sure Geralt will be _very_ happy to go with you."

Geralt snorted. "Uh-huh. Lots of nice, dark corners in there. Cozy."

Iorveth had been wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He froze, glanced back and forth between them, then lowered his hand slowly. "What of your wife, Gwynbleidd?" he asked, switching to the Elder Speech.

Yen looked from Iorveth to Geralt, her chin in her hand and laughter dancing in her eyes. "Yes, Geralt, what of your wife?" she repeated in the common tongue.

Iorveth's flush was visible even in the dim light, blooming high on his cheekbones and creeping up over the bruises on his neck. "Don't put any ideas into her head," Geralt said in a generous attempt to change the subject. "We're not married."

"You know the Elder Speech."

"Well spotted. I know all manner of things, Iorveth, and if a little bird comes whistling tonight, I see no reason to stand in its way."

A little optimistic, considering the extent of Iorveth's injuries. Still, Geralt appreciated the sentiment. Iorveth, though, had been thrown off-balance. Yen often had that effect on the unsuspecting. He stared at her, brow creased, but then Geralt saw a spark of recognition on his face — he'd realized _Yen_ was _Yennefer of Vengerberg_. Even he had probably heard some of the ballads.

She seemed to take pity on him after a moment and pushed her half-eaten stew over to him. "Eat. You'll like the beef."

He gave a short nod and pulled the bowl closer.

***

The crumbling arches and carved stone of the elven ruins became visible between the trees, and Iorveth straightened a little. "Is this it?"

"Yes. Don't expect too much. It was pillaged long ago." The woods opened up into a small, sun-drenched clearing with the stone building at its center. Roach stepped past the tangled tree roots and onto the grass, and the temperature dropped as if they'd stepped into the shade. Geralt pulled her to a stop and squinted against the sunlight, looking for movement among the toppled columns or beyond the darkened entrance to the tomb.

"What is it? Why'd you stop?" Iorveth asked, impatient, then slid off Roach without waiting for a reply.

"Don't know yet. Might be wraiths." He got off Roach, too, and walked closer to the nearest bit of stone — an elaborately carved balcony that had fallen off the main structure. The clearing was silent, and the air didn't get any colder. Still... "Watch your back."

"Watch it for me," Iorveth replied, already crouched in the grass with his hands on the carved stone. He spent at least half an hour circling the ruins, stopping frequently to examine the carvings and scrape moss off rows of tiny runes. "Bearach, Commander of the Vanguard," he muttered, then looked up at a statue whose head had been chiseled off, the pale stone rough and pitted with small holes where gemstones had once been inlaid. His jaw clenched in anger.

"Think the entire battalion’s buried with him?" Geralt asked to distract him. "I don't think the underground complex is that big, but I haven't spent a lot of time down there. Might've missed a hidden door."

"Maybe," he said, and looked wonderingly at the uneven stairs that led underground.

Geralt fetched a torch from Roach's saddlebags and lit it with his fingertips before hurrying back to the tomb, worming his way past Iorveth in the narrow stairway. "Stay behind me," he said, and his medallion gave a small shake as if his voice had stirred whatever was down there. He unsheathed his silver sword.

"I'm not an invalid," Iorveth groused. He did stay behind Geralt, though, eye fixed on the carved apple tree branches that ran high along the walls. Geralt alternated between keeping an eye on him and watching for movement in the pitch-black darkness in front of them. They ran into a skeleton after turning a few corners, and two golden rings fell jingling from between its bony fingers when Iorveth jostled it with one foot.

Iorveth bent to pick them up, grunting in pain — _not an invalid,_ Geralt thought to himself with a shake of his head — and his medallion started vibrating again and didn't stop. "Don't think that's a good idea."

"I don't mean to _keep_ them," Iorveth snapped at him, then pushed him forward.

He could smell the zing of magic in the air, ozone and anger that seemed to bleed from the very stones around them. It got bad enough that Iorveth could feel it too, judging from the way his heartbeat picked up. Geralt crept forward until he saw the corridor opening up into a large, dark room up ahead. "Wait," he said, and went on.

There were two bodies on low stone platforms, little more than skeletons, one of them half-scattered across the floor. He had time to notice the remnants of a campfire — a group of brigands with more bravery than sense, perhaps — before the darkness around him thickened and coalesced into over a dozen specters, anger twisting their fine features into ugly grimaces.

"Thief," he heard, and "dh'oine", and a whole lot more he couldn't catch, their voices hissing indistinctly in a dialect of the Elder Speech he hadn't heard before. He stood his ground and raised his sword, waiting for one of the specters to make a move. He should've brought a bomb or two; this wasn't going to be easy, especially not with Iorveth—

"Stand down!" Iorveth ordered, stepping in front of him. He didn't even have his swords out. Geralt grabbed his arm, but Iorveth shook him off. "Stand down," he repeated, and Geralt realized he was addressing the specters.

"Thief," they said in one voice, their anger grinding the stones together around them and raising dust in the room. One of the figures lashed out, darkness wrapping itself around Iorveth's hand, and he cried out as the rings clattered to the floor.

"Don't attack them," he said, glancing back at Geralt before facing the specters again. He was trembling, the torchlight catching on a bead of sweat at the side of his neck, but he addressed them with the kind scorn he usually reserved for dh’oine. "Have you gone so mad with rage that you cannot recognize your own kind?"

"You stand with the invader," one specter replied.

"Traitor."

" _Thief_."

Iorveth took an unsteady breath, his bloody hand settling on the pommel of his sword, and replied, "He's a witcher and a friend to the Aen Seidhe. Let us help you."

Geralt resented being included in whatever Iorveth was trying to do, a little, but the specters didn't immediately attack, so he sheathed his blade and watched as the wavering forms responded something to Iorveth. He felt the darkness pushing at him, trying to force him out of the room, and held his ground.

"Harm him and I'll scatter your bones so far apart you'll never find rest again," Iorveth hissed. "He stays. Tell us how to restore this place and bring you peace. Or do you want to stay like this forever?"

The darkness retreated slightly — had Iorveth really just _threatened_ a dozen specters? There were even more of them around than the dozen that had taken form, though, ripples of oily blackness peering at them from behind the walls, raising the hair on the back of Geralt's neck. The air smelled of decay and still fizzled with magic. He couldn't wait to get out of here.

One of the shapes moved close to Iorveth, taking on something closer to its living form as it glided forward. Geralt could distinguish the gleam of armor, the hint of elaborately braided hair. It bent close to Iorveth and they spoke in murmurs for a few minutes. He could pick out some words — "steal" and "dh'oine" again, but nothing concrete; when he tried to step forward to hear better, the darkness whispered a warning, arm-like tendrils spreading toward him. He waited.

Iorveth nodded, finally, and the darkness receded, sinking into the cracks between the stones, into the mouths and empty orbits of the two skeletons in front of them. The light from Geralt's torch filled the room again. "That one was Bearach, yeah?"

Iorveth gave another nod, then took a few shaky steps back and slid down against the wall. His heart was hammering in his chest. Geralt put down the torch and knelt in front of him. He sometimes forgot that most people didn't spend half their lives in swamps and caves full of slimy, murderous things. "You all right? Look like you've seen a ghost."

Iorveth laughed in an unsteady, unconvincing way and wiped the sweat from his brow. "And you do this every day?"

"They're not all this bad. What'd he have to say?" he asked, taking Iorveth's wounded hand. Long, parallel cuts ran over his palm, as if a beast had clawed him. He took out a bandage and started wrapping the wound.

"These two are his squires," Iorveth said, nodding toward the bodies. "He's over there, through that doorway, and the rest of his men— well, the tomb robbers haven't found them. They died centuries ago, pushed back the first wave of dh'oine that tried to conquer this place. They all woke up when Bearach's remains were disturbed."

"So... what, gotta fix him up a bit and track down whatever was stolen from here?"

"Something like that. Some kind of funeral to appease him, too."

He secured the bandage and clasped his hands around Iorveth's. His fingers were still trembling a little. "How much do you know about ancient elven funerary rites?"

Iorveth gave him a slightly despaired look that all but confirmed he'd bitten off more than he could chew. "I thought perhaps Yennefer..."

Great. "Yeah. Maybe." He gave Iorveth another minute to settle down, sending up a mental word of thanks to whatever witcher had come up with the mutation that had knocked the fear out of him as a child. He couldn't really remember how it felt and didn't miss it one bit. "Come on," he said eventually, then stood and helped Iorveth up. "Let's get out of here."

***

It took a few days for Geralt to notice the creep of Iorveth's project into his estate. He borrowed Roach almost every day, ventured out to the ruins, and came back pale and tired, carrying scraps of paper covered in haphazard notes and sketches. Yennefer had dug up a few tomes for him to read, which had been followed by a delivery of history books from the city, and eventually Geralt realized he was having to eat his meals at the one corner of the table that wasn't covered in open books, half-unrolled parchments, or ink-stained, grumbling elf.

No bird calls. Yet. Yen was enjoying herself immensely.

Barnabas-Basil didn't comment on the situation until a week had passed, interrupting Geralt halfway through his morning exercises out in front of the house. "Er, Geralt? Our guest has requested the purchase of more parchment."

"Oh?" Geralt waited for him to say more, but he didn't, simply looking at Geralt with his eyebrows raised. It occurred to him, after a few seconds, that he was seeking Geralt's permission. "Oh. Right. Buy him some, then."

Barnabas-Basil nodded and made to leave. Geralt grabbed his arm to stop him. The man practically lived with them — he figured he was owed a bit more of an explanation. "He's working on the elven ruins nearby. He'll be here for a while, so uh, just get him whatever he asks for. He might need..." He tried to imagine an elven funeral and drew a blank. "... flowers or... candles or something. Don't need to ask me first."

"Very well."

"Oh, and check if he wants anything for the bedroom upstairs. Pretty sparse up there."

"Perhaps a writing desk," Barnabas-Basil suggested, retrieving a small notebook from his pocket and scribbling something into it. If Geralt had noticed the mess on the dining room table, there was little doubt that Barnabas-Basil had too. He paused, pencil still on the page, and looked up at Geralt. "Elves can eat meat, yes?"

"What? _Yes._ He'll eat whatever we're eating."

"Understood." A few more scribbles and he snapped the notebook shut with a satisfied nod. "Forgive me for the interruption," he said primly. "I'll make sure he has everything he needs."

***

There was no smoke in the air, but Geralt was able to follow the scent of burnt herbs that clung to Iorveth's clothes up to the small hill that overlooked the estate. He found him lying in the grass on his uninjured side, his eye on the horizon, waving a blade of grass lazily for the same lanky cat who'd been hiding under his cloak when Geralt had found him.

Geralt got the usual reception — a hiss from the cat and a small smile from Iorveth. He stepped closer, slowly, but the animal still backed away, ears flat against its head, before turning tail and trotting off.

"It's the eyes," Iorveth remarked.

"No. Tried closing them." He'd only tried that once, in his naive youth, crouching in a stinking alley with his eyes squeezed shut and his hand outstretched toward a stray mutt. He'd gotten a bite on the hand for his trouble. "Maybe they can smell the mutations."

Iorveth tilted his head up and sniffed. "Under all the leather and blade oil? Unlikely."

"Didn't know the Scoia'tael had such high standards." Geralt sat down next to him and watched the farmhands below. Marlene was there, too, picking herbs from the garden. Once she was done, she'd pick up a broom and sweep dust from the porch. The farmhands' schedules were just as regular. The same routine, every single day — Geralt had found himself starting to get bored of it before Iorveth's sudden arrival.

Iorveth seemed to tire of staring off into the distance. He turned onto his back with a quiet hiss, teeth clenched together, and Geralt lay a hand on his stomach, his fingertips just at the edge of the bandaged wound. Iorveth gave him a sidelong glance, so Geralt held his tongue rather than offer him more poultice. It was clear he didn't like to be fretted over. At least not when he was sober.

"You're blocking the sun." The complaint was delivered in a lazy, unconcerned tone and accompanied by Iorveth's hand settling over his.

"Could block it more."

Iorveth snorted at him, his half-open eye glinting green-gold in the sunshine, and raised his other hand. He was still holding the blade of grass between two fingers and waved it at Geralt as if enticing him to play.

He plucked it from Iorveth's fingers, bent forward, then stopped. "May I?" he asked.

"Don't be ridiculous, Geralt," he replied, voice low. Geralt closed the distance between them and Iorveth sighed softly, opening his mouth to him. He took his time relearning it, probing at the familiar edge of a broken tooth with his tongue and savoring the faint taste of smoke that clung to him. The workers would talk — he could already hear faint whispers from one of the gardeners, a sharp-eyed girl with a penchant for gossip. Still, it was difficult to stop.

He nudged Iorveth's chin up with his nose and kissed a few of the leaves, too, before pulling away. Iorveth smiled up at him faintly. His scar had faded a bit, but the passing of time had otherwise left him completely untouched. He was just as beautiful as he'd been in Flotsam. "You haven't changed much," Geralt remarked, leaning back on his hands.

"And you've turned into an old dh'oine."

"I'm hurt," Geralt said despite the warmth in Iorveth's voice.

"Don't be. Retirement suits you. You look less like a starving wolf and more like a man."

"More like a dh'oine, you mean."

"I won't hold it against you."

"No? You must be going soft."

Iorveth's smile faded slowly from his face. He gingerly rolled back onto his side and then he was miles away again, staring into the distance.

Geralt had touched a nerve. He thought for a moment, then took a shot in the dark. "How's your unit?"

"Dead. For the most part." His attempt at flippancy had fallen flat. He clenched his jaw, eye on the mountains in the distance.

"Hanged?"

"Hanged, burned, tortured. Starved, last winter. There are fourteen of us left now," he said, and Geralt's stomach twisted. There'd been over a hundred Scoia’tael in Iorveth's unit. He remembered the stench of Novigrad's pyres all too well; clearly the situation in the Northern Kingdoms hadn't improved much since then.

"And none of them wanted to come with you?"

Iorveth glanced at him. "To _Toussaint_?" he snorted. "I thought it best not to mention where I was going." He picked at the grass, eyes downcast, and eventually started speaking again. "Our last two recruits were from the city. Young and stupid like dh'oine. But the woman was pregnant, so I let them stay." His expression softened a little as he turned to him. "Do you know how long it had been since I'd last seen a pregnant elf?"

Geralt hadn't seen one in a very long time, and he didn't avoid large cities the way Iorveth probably did in the North. "Years," he guessed, and Iorveth nodded once.

"I found her hanging from a tree not a month later, gutted like a fish. He hanged himself the following day. We found the dh'oine responsible for it, of course. Three more of my men died in the attack." He laughed, bitterly. "Years of this nonsense, and I've finally come to believe that six elven lives are worth more than a handful of dead dh'oine. It doesn't matter how many we kill. They'll just keep multiplying like animals."

"Can't have been the first time you've led your men to their deaths."

"No, but never one so senseless. They were in no state to fight. Most of them didn't want to. I gave the order anyway."

Silence fell over them again. What could Geralt say? Whatever platitudes he could've come up with wouldn't ease away the bitterness in Iorveth's voice. He was considering simply kissing him again when the distant sound of hoofbeats made him look up. A small group of knights, riding toward the estate.

"It's him," Iorveth said, and Geralt caught the glint of gold in the distance.

He left Iorveth behind and met the knights at the northern gate to Corvo Bianco. There were half a dozen of them, all mounted, all wearing armor that had seen more oil and polish than actual combat.

Their leader, Geralt supposed, lifted his visor to address him. "We have received reports that you are harboring a dangerous elven brigand, monsieur," he said grandiosely, the spray of peacock feathers on his golden helm bobbing as he spoke.

"Have you, now?" Geralt replied, gathering up all the patience he could muster for the conversation ahead. He had a feeling he'd need it.

"Indeed we have." The man dismounted and clanged closer, one hand on the jewel-encrusted pommel of his sword. "In the name of Her Enlightened Highness Anna Henrietta, I demand that you hand over the elf so that he may be brought to justice."

 _Aard_ itched at Geralt's fingertips. He drummed his fingers against the side of his leg. "And who are you exactly?"

"Godefroy de Babineaux, knight errant. Where is the elf?"

"What is he accused of?"

"He has been roaming the countryside, terrorizing Toussaintois and pillaging their homes!"

Geralt was unable to repress a smile. "All by himself?"

"This is no laughing matter, monsieur. He must be apprehended at once and answer for his crimes."

Geralt heard the rustle of grass and glanced over his shoulder to see Iorveth advancing slowly toward them, swords at his belt and an arrow nocked in his bow — though he kept it pointed down. "Your friends are here," he said, trying for levity. Iorveth only glared at them in silence.

"Drop your weapon, elf. You are trespassing upon—."

Iorveth spat at Godefroy. "This is elven land! I will go where I please!"

Toussaint had not been elven land for centuries. Still, Geralt thought it best to steer the conversation away from politics. "What is it that you stole, anyway?"

"Two bunches of grapes from Sancerre's vineyard," Godefroy cut in, and actually unfurled a length of parchment as he spoke. "A rabbit from the Coronata Estate, some berries, onions and carrots from Castel Ravello, and most recently, an entire date loaf and a bottle of the finest Cote-de-Blessure from the Feast of Blessed Ceslaus spread at the Cockatrice Inn."

The locations mentioned traced Iorveth's path south to Corvo Bianco. So he'd been waylaid in the mountains and had relied on petty theft to keep himself alive — being chased by six of Toussaint's finest seemed overkill. Geralt shook his head, retrieved his coin purse from his belt, and threw it at Godefroy's chest. "Should cover everything."

"I will manage without your charity, dh'oine," Iorveth growled, lashing out with the mindless anger of a cornered animal.

"Not a dh'oine, remember?" Geralt said mildly, keeping his eyes on the knights. "Are we done?"

Godefroy pocketed the money along with the crumpled list of offenses. "I appreciate your generosity, but the elf has broken our laws and must be taken into custody."

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw the tip of Iorveth's arrow rise slowly. The knights behind Godefroy drew their swords in response. Geralt had no weapons on him, but improvised by producing a small burst of flame from his hand — a warning. The horses stamped and whinnied, startled, and Godefroy's hand stilled on the handle of his sword, the blade still in its scabbard.

Geralt lowered his hand. "Heard him earlier, right? Afraid this estate's been reclaimed as elven land, so you've got no authority here. Take it up with the Aen Seidhe embassy." Which, of course, didn't exist. "Once you're done distributing that money."

A small, disbelieving snort made Geralt glance back at Iorveth, who grinned at him from behind the bright fletching of his arrow. It was a sight for sore eyes — brought back to mind Iorveth's hoarse, breathless laughter after a good fight, and the wicked flash of teeth he'd shot him from across The Cauldron one night, right after cutting through the din of the crowd with his little bird call.

"Her Highness will hear of this!" Godefroy announced, bringing Geralt back to reality. He whipped around and stomped back to his horse, the poor animal nickering as he climbed on gracelessly and yanked on the reins. His lackeys followed, and Geralt watched until he was sure all six of them were off his lands.

***

He found Yennefer sitting in bed that evening, nose buried not in one of her ludicrous novels but in a thick, dusty tome filled with complex-looking diagrams. He got a closer look at them as he slid under the covers next to her. "Protective barriers?" he guessed, recognizing a few of the runes. "Not your usual bedtime reading."

"It is rather dry," she agreed, closing the book — the cover's worn-out lettering proclaimed _Magical Locks and Barriers, A Treatise in Three Volumes_ , or at least something of the sort, if Geralt's Old Nilfgaardian was to be trusted, "but your elf asked for help, and I just couldn't resist those pretty cheekbones of his. He can be downright civilized when he needs a favor."

" _My elf_ has a name." He took the book from her grasp, setting it aside, and sighed at the smirk he got in return. "He wants to lock up the tomb once he's done with it?"

"Yes. Nothing too difficult, although I've never had to erect a barrier to keep out humans but not full-blooded elves. That will add an interesting layer of complexity to the spell."

"Is that why you're helping him? Intellectual curiosity?"

"What harm is there in repairing an old building? This is one of the better ideas to come out of his head in recent years, if his reputation in the North is anything to go by. I see no reason not to contribute to the effort."

It was... odd, imagining Yen and Iorveth interacting without him, an uncomfortable clash between the life he'd led prior to recovering his memory and the life he led now, after his mad search for Ciri and their defeat of the Wild Hunt. Did Iorveth even know of his link to Ciri? She was Emhyr's heir — surely he would have heard of her over the past year or so.

He shook his head, discarding the thought. "Well, thanks. I'm sure he appreciates it."

"Mm, yes, he even said 'thank you' himself. The specters are _your_ specialty, though. I'll be giving them a wide berth."

"We're on it," he said with more confidence than he felt, then snuffed out the lantern.

Yen took the cue and slid down to move closer to him, though he could _hear_ her smiling in the dark. "It's a bit early for bed, don't you think?"

"Who said I was tired?" His hand found her waist, then the swell of her hip and some sort of delicate lace underthing that probably didn't do much to cover her. She'd spent a lot of her time wearing almost nothing at all for the past few days; she was trying to wind him up, he was sure of it, but he drew her to him and kissed her anyway.

It lasted for a few blissful minutes, Yennefer writhing happily in his grasp, hands wandering over him, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. "Tell me a story," she panted into his mouth as she closed her hand around his erection, and he dropped his head to her shoulder and groaned. She laughed. Her hand lingered, idle and teasing, and she waited for the story to come.

" _Fine_." He closed his eyes and Iorveth's grin floated up unbidden into his mind, the memory already brought close to the surface by that afternoon's confrontation. "Everyone was celebrating at the inn after we won the battle of Vergen. Iorveth was—"

Iorveth was pulling him up the narrow staircase, mead on his breath and laughter in his eye, the din of the celebrating crowd covering up the sound of their clumsy stumble up the stone steps. He reeked of blood, they both did, and bruises had already sprung up on Iorveth's cheek, at the corner of his mouth. They half-fell into Geralt's room and Iorveth ducked his attempt at a kiss, instead giving him a shove that sent him stumbling into a nearby chair.

Geralt kept his balance, but just barely. He eyed Iorveth. His blood still ran hot from the battle, some sort of mad joy singing through him, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot impatiently as he stared back at Geralt; he wasn't done fighting.

Geralt smiled. "You're insane," he said, but he shifted into a better stance, feet wider apart for balance, one hand rising to throw _Aard_ at Iorveth. The elf surged forward and grabbed his wrist just in time, pushing it upwards — Geralt heard the whoosh of air and the crack of the ugly framed landscape on the wall splintering into several pieces. The painting clattered to the floor and he and Iorveth grappled with each other, kicking the chair out of the way — Geralt heard that break, too — until finally he put some of his real strength into it and slammed Iorveth into the edge of the writing desk with one arm twisted behind his back, the potion vials and ingredients he'd spread onto the wooden surface rattling together at the impact.

Iorveth grunted in pain but his breath came in short, eager pants, and when Geralt pressed closer he stopped struggling in his grip. " _Cláraigh me, vatt'ghern_ ," he said.

It took a few seconds for Geralt to track down the verb, but when he finally did his fingers tightened helplessly around Iorveth's wrist, lust rolling over him and settling low in his stomach. _Take me_. He looked over Iorveth's shoulder and scrabbled one-handed for a vial of plain oil, knocking a few more ingredients off the desk in the process. Half the oil spilt over Iorveth's hand as he grabbed the vial from him, and Geralt focused instead on pulling off the elf's belt and sash and yanking his armor out of the way. Iorveth's slippery fingers found the laces on his trousers, then his cock, and a moment later Geralt was pushing into him, drawing a shuddering cry from him. "Quiet," he said, both hands tight around his Iorveth's hips, the tree roots distorted under his fingers.

"Why?" Iorveth replied with a gasping laugh. Geralt couldn't think of an answer. He grabbed a fistful of Iorveth's hair, sticky with half-dried blood, pushed him down onto the desk, and _took_ him.

They collapsed together into a disgusting heap on the bed afterward, making a bloody, muddy mess of the already questionable sheets. Geralt threw one arm over Iorveth, nosed his way to a comfortable spot in the crook of his neck, and fell asleep.

He did not mention how Iorveth had woken him up late the next morning with a murmured " _gwynbleidd_ " and a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. He did not mention how he'd washed Iorveth's hair and scrubbed the dried blood from his body, either, or how they'd gone another round or two before setting off for Loc Muinne together. It didn't seem like the kind of detail Yen would care to hear.

***

Even months later, Dettlaff's attack had left an obvious mark on Beauclair. The colorfully painted, ramshackle houses of the Lower Town still bore claw marks and haphazard repairs, and many doors and archways were strung with garlic or other superstitious nonsense. An old woman bent over a tub full of dirty clothes and sudsy water eyed them as they passed, and the faint smell of blood rose from the packed earth where the water had overflowed.

Iorveth wouldn't have been able to smell the blood, not without witcher mutations, but he still looked like something mildly unpleasant was being held under his nose. He grasped his borrowed horse's reins tight in one hand and squinted warily through the morning sun at every human they passed as they made their way west toward the Harbor Gate. Geralt had grown to like Beauclair quite a bit — the bright painted houses and the flowers and murals, the cozy, dimly-lit inns with their well-stocked wine cellars, and even the asshole tanner who called Geralt "kitty" whenever he dropped off a load of deer hides had a certain charm to them that the most beautiful cities in the North couldn't rival. The Lower Town was new and dirty, though, and had none of the ancient elven influence that was still visible at the city's core; Iorveth's reaction wasn't particularly surprising.

His expression did change when he noticed the view halfway up the hill to the upper part of the city. Lake Célavy stretched out below them, sparkling with sunshine, and that peculiar split rock formation towered in the distance, surrounded by lush green hills. It made the entire North look like a flat grey pigsty.

"Not bad, right?" Geralt asked. Iorveth had stopped his horse to stare.

"Not bad," he conceded, then nudged the horse forward. He stopped again and slid off it right as they stepped into the upper city proper, when a bright bit of broken blue tile caught his attention. And then he was off, ignoring the painters, jugglers, trained dogs and art merchants in favor of poring over every inch of worn leaf-patterned carvings and faint traces of elven runes he managed to find in the forgotten cracks and crevices of the city. Geralt caught his horse's reins and tied it to a hitching post near the Adder and Jewels, then let Roach go free. She behaved, usually.

"Look, mother! It's Sir Greylocks and he's with an elf!" a boy called out excitedly.

"It's rude to stare," the mother hissed, but proceeded to do just that when she saw Iorveth — his pointed ear was a lot easier to spot with him crouched down to examine the base of a fountain instead of sitting on horseback. Eventually he glared up at her and she rushed off, blushing furiously, with her skirt flapping behind her and her child struggling against her grip.

"Could buy you a hood," Geralt offered, a few alleys and two more fountains later. The piercing cry of "he's with an elf!" had attracted several curious people who were doing their damnedest to have a look at them without being noticed. They were failing.

Iorveth sniffed. "Don't bother." He was standing in front of a bright mural that depicted grape-laden vines. He grinned, suddenly, and Geralt couldn't figure out why until he put his nose right up to the wall and noticed the shallow carvings under the layers of paint: _Ludovic fucks goats._

"Isn't that an ancient elven blessing?" he asked, touching his fingertips to the tiny grooves, because there was a baker three paces away who was clearly listening to them.

"What?" Iorveth said, blinking. Geralt raised his eyebrows at him and tilted his head toward the man. "Ah... yes. It will bring you good luck."

Geralt steered Iorveth well away from the Nilfgaardian embassy and led him to a bookstore tucked near the entrance to the docks, where the elderly owner got very excited about meeting an elf, thanked Geralt profusely for saving Beauclair, then became crestfallen that he had nothing on local elven funerary rites.

"Oh, but let me think— there was this one book, now where was it... I have no idea what it says, mind you..."

It took several minutes, during which Geralt selected a couple of horrendous romance novels for Yen, for the man to produce a dusty, crumbling old tome written in a cursive form of the Elder Speech he'd never seen before. He'd have to sit down with it for a while before puzzling any of it out, but Iorveth simply turned a few of the pages, gave an odd little smile, and said he'd take it.

The man refused to take Geralt's money. Iorveth listened with surprising patience to a lengthy tale about his great-great-great-grandfather on his mother's side, who was thought to be a half-elf, and they eventually made their escape back to the horses to tuck the books into their saddlebags.

"What now?" Iorveth asked, leaning against his horse.

Geralt eyed the way he was holding himself and the hint of pain around his eye, and said, "Lunch."

The Badger's Head was dark and intimate and stocked Yennefer's favorite wine; the innkeeper and musicians who worked there knew him well by now. As was often the case, Iolente sat plucking her harp slowly with the air of someone who'd celebrated a little too hard the night before. She looked up and brightened when they entered, though. "Greylocks!"

Guillot, the young innkeeper, looked up from his whittling at her cry. He brushed sawdust from his apron as he rushed over, gesturing to Geralt's usual spot, a corner table with a good view of both the entrance and the stage. "Have a seat, have a seat. Will Lady Yennefer be joining you today?"

"Not this time. I'll have the usual." He sat. "And something to eat."

Guillot nodded, gamely hiding his disappointment — he had a tendency to turn funny colors and go very quiet when Yen graced his establishment. Couldn't blame him, really. "And for you, sir?"

Iorveth gave him a blank, tired look and favored his wounded side when he sat. "It's his first time in Beauclair," Geralt offered in his stead.

"Say no more," he said, giving him a dimpled grin before walking off.

Iorveth raised his eyebrow across the table. Geralt shrugged. "He's got a good palate. And a good eye for customers."

"He looks fifteen at most."

"Seventeen. Parents died in the vampire attack."

He nodded his understanding and propped one elbow on the table. It didn't take long for the drinks to arrive — a generous goblet of Everluce for Geralt, and a tankard of sweet-smelling mead for Iorveth, who peered at the contents skeptically before trying it. Guillot hovered behind him and nodded to himself when Iorveth kept drinking.

"Sunflower honey mead. Fancy. He must think you have exotic tastes."

Iorveth surfaced from his mug. "He's wrong. But this is good."

It didn't take long for one of Guillot's young sisters to appear from the kitchens with a wooden tray laden with cheese and fruit. Geralt smelled her coming: the camembert was rather ripe, as was the crumbly blue-veined hunk of cheese that accompanied it. There were fresh figs, too, and sliced pears and strawberries. The girl plunked down the tray in front of them along with most of a baguette and a bit of butter. They'd left out the cured meats and pâté that would usually have been included, but at least this time Iorveth didn't seem to notice.

Geralt's mouth was watering already. The cheese hit Iorveth's nose and he recoiled a little, pulling his tankard to himself protectively as if the stink would taint it. Geralt managed a laugh around the slice of pear already in his mouth. "Try it. Doesn't taste like it smells."

He did so, nose wrinkled, and washed down the tiny morsel with a generous amount of mead. "This is vile. We had better cheese on the Nilfgaardian frontlines." The rest was to his taste, though, and they picked at the tray in comfortable silence for several minutes, tearing off chunks of bread in turns.

Iolente had started plucking a familiar melody on her harp, her soft humming tickling at Geralt's brain until he remembered. _Sir Cat and the Witch_ , a catchy little tune she'd come up with after his and Yennefer's first few visits to the inn. Too catchy, in fact, as it had started following Geralt around, the occasional passerby singing it behind his back. He glowered at her. She shot him a grin.

"What?" Iorveth asked.

"Nothing. Food's coming."

"There's more?"

The youngest sister, slight and serious-faced, brought out a sampling of typical Toussaintois desserts: blancmange made in a tiny, delicate mold, a tartlet filled with custard, and a single piece of shortbread. She put the plate down on Iorveth's side of the table, eyeing his face with open curiosity, then turned to Geralt and held up a spoon to him. He sniffed at its contents — blueberry pie filling — and took it from her. "Smells better than last time."

She stared at him, waiting.

He tipped the spoonful into his mouth, rolling the taste around before he swallowed. "Hmm. Let it simmer ten more minutes. And add more cinnamon."

"We're out. Guillot says it's too expensive and I need to wait."

Geralt slid a coin across the table and held a finger to his lips. The girl stuffed it into the pocket of her apron, giving him a rare smile that revealed the same exact dimples as her brother, and hurried back to the kitchen. He looked back at Iorveth and found the plate of sweets already empty.

"I suppose we should head to the marketplace," Iorveth sighed, sounding unmotivated. "It's why we're here, after all."

Geralt wanted to sit there and watch him eat fruit and sweets until he stopped looking so tired and underfed. He frowned to himself at the irrational urge and rose from his seat instead.

The marketplace bore even more evidence of the lasting wounds Dettlaff's attack had left on the city. Many of the merchants were foreigners, richly-dressed Zerrikanians and Nilfgaardians from the capital who'd smelled blood and slithered in to fill the gaps in Beauclair's decimated economy. Even some of the city guards who milled about spoke Nilfgaardian to each other, and black and white checked fabric poked out from under their heavy armor; evidently Emhyr had sent in some of his troops to make up for the losses.

Iorveth turned up his nose at the Zerrikanian pipe herbs, but the bolts of fabric strewn around an old merchant dressed in ostentatious, jewel-toned silks caught his attention. He ignored the man's chatter about the quality of the silk and instead selected a length of white linen shot with silver thread that shimmered in the late afternoon sun. Geralt stepped in to negotiate. His rusty Zerrikanian didn't earn him much of a discount, but he managed to arrange for a delivery to Corvo Bianco at no extra cost — better than having to carry a bolt of fabric around the city. To his surprise, Iorveth produced a hefty coin pouch and paid the man wordlessly.

"Found a sponsor for the tomb?" Geralt asked once they'd left the market through a narrow alleyway. "Or are you a better pickpocket than I thought?"

Iorveth looked up from the trail of carved leaves he'd been running his fingers along as they walked. "The former, I suppose."

"One of those lunatics who dress up like elves in their free time?"

He gave him a strange look. "No. Yennefer."

Ah. Yen seemed almost too eager to indulge Iorveth and his unexpected restoration project, but he suspected she was only relieved to have something to work on after spending months doing very little at Corvo Bianco. And if that meant Iorveth could stay with them without raising her ire, well...

"Where are you taking me?" Iorveth asked. They turned one last corner and the alleyway opened up in front of them, revealing the Knights Dormant square and the ornate bridge that led to the palace grounds. Geralt squinted against the sunlight, found the small ledge that overlooked the gardens, and pointed.

"See that path up the hill?"

Iorveth eyed the path in question and gave a rather unenthused shrug. "I see it. I see no reason to climb it."

"Trust me."

They kept to the half-forgotten path that snaked its way up the steep hill along the side of the palace, the packed earth giving way to overgrown grass and bushes that caught on their clothes as they walked by. Geralt nearly missed the small archway that marked the location of the alcove— it stood behind a tall olive tree, entirely obscured from view unless one left the path, which he'd done last year while nosing around for clues to the murders.

"We're here," he said encouragingly (Iorveth sounded a little winded behind him) before stepping inside. The twittering birds and distant sounds of horse hooves on cobblestones were immediately swallowed up by the stone and the earth. The air was stale and still, noticeably cooler than the sunny palace grounds, and Geralt remembered why he'd found the place so striking. It felt _ancient_ ; much older than even the palace itself, judging by the style of the statue that stood at the far end of the room.

Dana Méadbh — the Queen of the Fields, or at least Geralt thought so. A small hole had been made in the ceiling above her, bathing her in sunlight. Fruit and nuts seemed to spill from her cupped hands to pile at her feet, and even her clothing evoked the harvest and other bounties of the land, from her cloak of oak leaves to the spray of wheat stalks and flowers that crowned her head. Her face, fine and pointed almost like the Aen Elle, was like nothing Geralt had ever seen in the elven ruins of the North.

He looked back at Iorveth, proud of himself for remembering the place, but found him standing there as if he'd been struck by lightning, something raw and _pained_ on his face as he gazed up at the statue.

Geralt looked away. "I'll be outside," he said, stepping back. "Stay as long as you like."

Iorveth turned his head away from him, but nodded. Geralt left the alcove and hopped down to a small ledge where he could watch the sunset. Or at least he'd intended to, until he heard Iorveth sniffling quietly and decided to meditate instead.

"It's remarkably well preserved," Iorveth said some time later, breaking his trance. A few pebbles tumbled down behind Geralt and bounced off his back as Iorveth slid down to join him on the ledge. He sat with his legs dangling off the edge, eye falling to the gardens below. "It seems a lot older than the rest of the palace."

"Didn't think you were an expert in ancient art."

As far as attempts to lighten the mood went, this one wasn't impressive, but Iorveth dredged up a lopsided smile all the same. "Were you under the impression that I sprang fully formed from my mother's womb with a blade in my hand and a squirrel tail pinned to my hat?"

"'Course not. Where would you have found a hat?" Geralt waited for Iorveth to acknowledge the jest, his red-rimmed eye warm as it flicked his way, before continuing. "So, what, you studied history? Art conservation?"

"No." He volunteered no other information. "We can go back to the vineyard if you like."

"You in a hurry?" Geralt replied. The blazing sunset hadn't dimmed much; less than an hour had passed since they'd made their way up the hill, by his estimation. He watched the few nobles who still wandered the gardens below until an insistent growl from his stomach reminded him of the food he was carrying — leftovers from the inn. He unpacked the fruit, cheese and bread, setting everything down on the grass between them.

Iorveth looked down at the food with a strange sort of sadness. He methodically gathered his share of it into his arms and Geralt realized what he was doing before he even headed back into the alcove: an offering, or some kind of ritual. Lammas was approaching; maybe gifts to Dana Méadbh were common at this time of the year to ensure a good harvest.

Geralt picked up a strawberry and rolled it idly between his fingers, considering slipping into meditation again to give Iorveth some privacy. He was back a moment later, though. Geralt bit into the fruit and watched Iorveth grit his teeth as he sat. His injuries must have been bothering him — it'd been a long day. "Eat. There's enough."

He shook his head, his gaze fixed on the gardens. Was fasting somehow part of the offering he'd made? Geralt knew too little about elven religion to hazard a guess. He focused on the leftovers instead of insisting, eating his way through most of the food but leaving some bread and cheese behind in case Iorveth changed his mind.

"Did you bring that pipe of yours?"

Iorveth gave him a sidelong look, then produced the pipe and started packing it with his usual mix. Geralt took it from him and lit it with a snap of his fingers. He took a slow drag, then handed it back, hoping the mild buzz would be enough to smooth away the palpable sadness that had fallen over them. It hadn't exactly been what Geralt had been aiming for by bringing Iorveth to this place.

Servants were lighting torches in the gardens, bright orange flames dotting the deepening darkness below them. By the time the sun had sunk below the horizon, Iorveth was slumped against him. "Thank you for bringing me here," he muttered long after Geralt had thought him asleep.

"Didn't mean to make you feel that way, though."

Iorveth snorted. "Good thing one of us knows how I'm feeling." The herbs distorted the bitterness in his voice into airy amusement. Again he volunteered nothing further, so Geralt sat with him in silence until his head slipped off his shoulder. He jerked awake and looked around blearily, then seemed to notice the gaping void in front of him and grabbed onto Geralt's forearm.

"Let's go," Geralt said.

They made their way down and back across the bridge in silence. Geralt whistled for Roach (who smelled suspiciously of carrots) and tracked down Barnabas-Basil's gelding, but took one look at Iorveth and pushed him toward Roach instead. The last thing he needed was to nod off and fall off a horse.

Geralt climbed on in front of him and clicked his tongue, spurring Roach into a slow walk toward Coopers Gate and pulling the other horse along by its reins. By the time they passed the gate Iorveth was sound asleep, his forehead pressed against Geralt's shoulder and one hand fisted into his shirt.

Geralt tilted his head back and watched the sky as Roach followed the road. The herbs had blurred his senses slightly, turned the stars into slow-moving fireflies. It made his head hurt a little. Or was it just Iorveth making his head hurt? His understanding of human nature was rudimentary at best; elven nature seemed entirely beyond his grasp. Perhaps if he hadn't been a witcher, he would've known how to offer comfort.

Iorveth woke up when they reached Corvo Bianco, but only just. He slid off Roach, nearly swaying on his feet, retrieved the elven book from the saddlebags and headed inside without a word. Geralt watched him go, then turned away to stable the horses.

***

Geralt woke up the next morning to the sounds of animated conversation drifting in from the kitchen. He frowned and turned his head, but found Yen still next to him, sleeping soundly.

Curious, he slipped out of bed, pulled on his clothes and crept out of the bedroom. The house was still dark, with only faint grey light filtering in from the windows — the sun was barely rising.

"Spoons? You can't be serious."

That had been Iorveth. Geralt found him standing in front of the oven, where a fire crackled. Marlene stood next to him, leaning against the counter. It was covered with a mess of ingredients. "Yes. If it weren't for Geralt, I'd still be trapped in that dreadful place, collecting — oh, speak of the devil. Good morning."

Geralt returned Marlene's smile but found his eyes drawn back to Iorveth. His hands were dusty with flour. Several remarks fought for priority in Geralt's mind before he settled for, "You're up early."

"I'm _starving_."

Geralt smelled the air. Whatever was baking smelled too sweet to be bread. Before he could ask about it, Iorveth reached into the oven with a rag and retrieved a tray covered in bite-sized cakes. "Cake for breakfast?"

"Like his mother used to make," Marlene said, edging aside to give Iorveth some room at the counter. She was watching him like a hawk — must've been delighted by the insight into elven cuisine.

"They need to cool for a few minutes." Iorveth was transferring the small cakes from the tray to a large plate. He stopped, shaking the heat from his hand, and took a quick look at the mess of pots, pans and ingredients that covered every surface. "They're good with berries," he said to no one in particular.

"I'll be right back." Marlene hurried out of the room, undoubtedly on her way to the cellar.

Geralt watched Iorveth hover over his cakes impatiently. He'd been wearing one of Geralt's shirts to bed — a soft old thing that was a little too big at the shoulders and exposed the line of his neck beautifully.

He slipped his hand under it, stepping up behind Iorveth, and felt the edges of his bandage. "Should change that after breakfast."

"It's fine." He still sounded distracted by the cakes. "Yennefer left some poultice last night so I..." His breath left him when Geralt dipped his head and sucked at the spot where his neck met his shoulder. "What's gotten into you?" he murmured.

"Don't know." Geralt rubbed his scratchy cheek against Iorveth's neck. The stubble would redden his smooth skin, Geralt knew. He liked seeing it. "Succubus bit me, maybe."

He felt Iorveth laugh. "I don't think that's how succubi work."

"I'm the witcher here." He pressed closer, bracing one hand on the counter, and Iorveth turned in his arms to face him. He'd flipped his hair to one side — it covered his missing eye but wasn't quite long enough to hide the smirk that curled one side of his mouth. There was a powdery streak right at the corner of it. Geralt moved just a little closer, forcing him back against the counter, and licked at what turned out to be almond meal. "... How're you feeling?" he asked belatedly against Iorveth's cheek.

" _Hungry_. How nice of you to ask." His arms snaked around Geralt's waist, though, and he indulged him with a kiss.

"Oh," Marlene said softly, sounding surprised. Geralt rested his forehead on Iorveth's shoulder and closed his eyes. She recovered quickly. "Well, I don't blame you one bit, Geralt, he's a beautiful lad. Shame about the eye, though."

He reopened his eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of Marlene's hand squeezing Iorveth's arm. "Poor thing," she added, then placed a full bowl of berries on the counter and peered around Iorveth. "Are they cool enough?"

"Yes, I think so." He sounded surprisingly indifferent to having been called "poor thing" by a human. Perhaps learning about Marlene's past had put her in his good graces, or at least piqued his curiosity enough to make him civil. He turned around and Geralt stepped back to give him some space.

There wasn't much artfulness to elven cuisine, it turned out, or at least not to Iorveth's. He tossed a couple of the cakes onto three plates, poured too much honey over them, then dumped handfuls of berries on top of the resulting mess.

Marlene seemed delighted to be offered a plate. "Thank you, Iorveth."

"Eat with us," he said simply, then carried the other two plates to the dining room.

Their meal was cut short by the delivery of the linen from Beauclair's market. Barnabas-Basil brought it inside, looking slightly confused ("Will Lady Yennefer require the services of a tailor?"), and Iorveth immediately started clearing the table to make room for the large bolt of cloth.

"Hey," Geralt said, stabbing the last bite of cake with his fork just before Iorveth took his plate out of reach.

Iorveth turned to Marlene, ignoring him. "How good are you at needlework?"

"Needlework? I haven't done it in many years, but... well, I was better at it than my sisters were. I remember how they used to—"

"You can teach me, then. What will I need?"

Barnabas-Basil cleared his throat. "My wife has the necessary supplies, should you require them."

Iorveth nodded, and Barnabas-Basil slipped back out of the house. A few minutes later, the cloth had been cut into three equal lengths — funerary shrouds, no doubt about it now — and Iorveth had brought down a sheaf of papers covered in elven runes. He sat with a corner of the fabric in one hand and a needle in the other, a perplexed frown on his face, and Marlene stood over him, her hands moving through the air as she explained the process.

Geralt shook his head at the absurd scene and headed back to the kitchen. Yen would want some cakes when she woke up.

***

Iorveth was still at it when evening fell, hunched over the fabric with his brow furrowed and his shoulders tense. He'd made decent progress on the first shroud, one side of it already lined with a row of small, slightly irregular runes stitched in silver thread that shone in the candlelight.

The candlelight was dancing in his eye and over his skin, too, giving what was visible of his tattoo the warm cast of autumn leaves. Geralt thought about kissing him earlier, about the almond-sweet slide of his tongue into Geralt's mouth and the way he'd gone breathless at his touch.

The tip of his ear was poking out from under his hair. Geralt considered licking it.

"What?" Iorveth asked, glancing up at him. Geralt realized he'd been standing there for too long, staring, and spared a thought for how _gleeful_ Yen would have been, had she been there to see what her merciless teasing had reduced him to. He never would've heard the end of it, but luckily, she'd left for the tomb earlier that afternoon — something about the broken balcony.

He cleared his throat. "Uh. How do you feel?"

The question made Iorveth look up again, and this time the small movements of his hands stilled, his eye lingering on him. Geralt was hard already from the sight of him alone, but the sudden heat in his gaze sent another slow pulse of arousal coursing through him. Iorveth put down his needle. "Come here," he said instead of answering the question.

He rose from his chair to meet him, and then they were kissing again, finally, Geralt's fingers tangled in Iorveth's hair to hold him there, Iorveth's hands tugging the hem of Geralt's shirt from his trousers. His palms slid up Geralt's back, then back down in a slow, lazy path over the web of scar tissue and the knobs of his spine. One of his hands wandered further down, squeezing his buttock, and Geralt found himself pressing even closer, groaning in satisfaction at the solid warmth of Iorveth's thigh against his cock.

Iorveth took an involuntary step back, his chair scraping against the floor behind him, and Geralt felt a hot puff of laughter against his mouth. "Easy."

"Are you sure you're—" Geralt started to say, holding him by the hips so he wouldn't lose his balance again, but Iorveth cut him off by kissing him.

They somehow made their way upstairs, twined together, and Geralt pushed Iorveth down to sit on the edge of the bed, noting the way he rubbed at his bandage. "We could smoke," he offered, kneeling in front of him and placing both hands on his thighs.

"If you're going to ravish me, I'd rather be fully conscious for it." Iorveth covered one of Geralt's hand with his, stroking his skin, and Geralt caught the very faint smell of blood wafting through the air. He leaned closer and saw small specks of dried blood on Iorveth's finger where he'd pricked himself with the needle. He took the finger into his mouth, soothing the tiny pinpricks with his tongue, then nudged Iorveth's legs further apart and moved in to mouth at his cock through his trousers.

Iorveth's shallow breaths and the faint smell of his arousal filled Geralt's senses; his own cock throbbed in response. He wanted to hear and smell and _taste_ how much Iorveth desired him. It'd been too long. Iorveth murmured soft, encouraging nonsense in the Elder Speech above him, his hands finding their way into Geralt's hair. Strands of it fell into his face as Iorveth tugged his ponytail loose, and Geralt bit his thigh in reproach.

"I like it loose, wolf. Would you deny a wounded elf this simple pleasure?"

Geralt peered up at him through his hair and saw that he was smirking. "I'll show you simple pleasure," he retorted, tugging at the laces on his trousers. His cock sprang free, as beautiful as the rest of him, and Geralt licked and mouthed at the head of it until he could taste Iorveth's pleasure on his tongue, until Iorveth lost patience and closed his fist into his hair, pulling him in. His cock bumped against the roof of his mouth, then slid in deeper. Geralt moaned at the hot weight of it and clung onto Iorveth's legs, letting him set the pace.

Geralt couldn't bear the slow push and pull for very long, in the end — he wanted more. He leaned back, releasing Iorveth's cock, and it bounced against his smooth stomach, straining upwards. "Lie back," he ordered, his voice hoarse.

Iorveth obeyed carefully, but his mouth still twisted in pain at the movement. "I can't move as much as I'd like," he said, sounding apologetic.

"Then don't." Geralt stood and pulled off his boots, then the rest of his clothing, letting each item drop carelessly to the floor. He climbed into bed, planted a knee on either side of Iorveth's hips, and grabbed the base of his cock, still slick with his spit. He expected a bit of discomfort as he guided it into his body, but if there was any, he was much, much too far gone to feel it, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and his nerves buzzing with anticipation. All he could think of was how much he'd missed this.

Iorveth shifted underneath him, the angle _just_ right, and the sudden spark of pleasure that shot through him felt almost like relief. He sank down until his full weight rested on Iorveth, then paused to look at him. He'd thrown his head back, his eye squeezed shut. His hands moved restlessly, fingertips travelling up Geralt's thighs and over his stomach. Geralt guided one of them to his dripping cock, then started to move.

Neither of them lasted long. The sweet, nearly unbearable tension built and built with every smooth slide of Iorveth's cock inside him, and then Iorveth choked out his name, his grip turning almost painful as he thrust up into him, and the breathless pleasure in his voice slammed into Geralt like a well-timed _Aard_ , knocking all coherent thought from his head.

***

Someone was shaking his shoulder. He rolled onto his back, blinking. "Mrrf?"

"Sleeping in?" Yen asked sweetly. She was smiling.

"Guess so." He eyed the small sunbeam that was filtering into the room, painting a bright spot on the wall. Judging by the angle, it was... late. _Afternoon_ late. He remembered waking up at some point in the night, hard all over again, rubbing himself against Iorveth's back. Iorveth had indulged him _several_ more times, pleasuring him with his fingers and mouth and cock until he'd nearly shuddered himself apart. He felt like a wrung-out towel. "Did we keep you up?"

" _You_ did. I've never heard you sound quite like that."

"Sorry."

"Please don't apologize, I found it very stimulating." She leaned down to press her lips to his, still looking like the cat who'd gotten the canary. Geralt grunted happily and pulled her closer by the waist until she had no choice but to get into bed with him, straddling his hips, settling her warm weight on top of him. His over-stimulated flesh barely managed a twitch at the contact. This wasn't going to go anywhere. Felt nice, though.

"Mm, I did come up here to show you something," she said eventually, sitting up and tossing her hair out of her face. "I found this posted on a notice board in Beauclair." She produced a piece of parchment and held it up so he could read it.

_Seeking expert in curses_

_Unnatural cold weather coming in from the forest is threatening our harvests. A reward of 300 florens..._

He frowned and skipped to the bottom of the page. It had been signed by two owners of nearby vineyards and a turnip farmer. "Shit. I haven't been over there in a few days. Guess Bearach isn't happy with Iorveth's progress."

"He was hoping Bearach's weapons or armor would turn up in Beauclair, but none of the antiquarians or blacksmiths had any leads. I'm still asking around, but we'll be working on the outside of the tomb in the meantime. Maybe that'll calm him down."

"The parts that collapsed? You'll need to hire stonemasons. Doesn't sound too calming."

"Magic, Geralt. There are spells for this. In fact," she continued, eyeing him thoughtfully, "I could use your help with something."

"Sure. Anything," he replied, feeling rather agreeable.

"Get yourself cleaned up and meet me outside." She gave his bare chest a fond little pat as she slid back to her feet. Geralt took his time getting up, first stretching out slowly among the tangled sheets, sighing at the pleasant burn in his muscles. He dragged himself up, yawning and rubbing at his sore jaw, and retrieved his trousers from the floor.

The elven book from the Beauclair shop lay open on the writing desk Barnabas-Basil had recently acquired, surrounded by Iorveth's messy notes about the tomb, and Geralt leaned over it curiously. It was difficult to tell where each word started and ended. He put his finger on the brittle, yellow parchment and bent closer, sounding out the syllables one by one.

_Take a standard measure of sugar and beat well with the yolks of three new-laid eggs..._

He snorted to himself, letting his hand drop, and headed downstairs for a quick sponge bath.

"You sure about this?" Geralt asked, hand raised. "You like that thing."

Yen crossed her arms. He shrugged, took a deep breath and hit the stone bench with _Aard_ , cracking it right down the middle and ruffling Yennefer's hair and dress. A handful of leaves rained down from the tree above them and settled over the chunks of stone.

"Perfect. Thank you."

She stared at the remnants of the bench for a few moments, then started incanting softly. The two halves trembled (as did Geralt's medallion), but got nowhere close to their original positions. He leaned against the tree to watch, curious to see her grapple with an unfamiliar spell.

Four attempts later, Yen was red-faced and panting from the effort, and the two chunks of rock hadn't even moved again. She let her hands drop with a frustrated cry, and Geralt pushed himself from the tree. "It's too heavy." He tipped each half onto its side with his foot, then bent down and shoved them closer to each other, until the bench almost looked like it was whole again and had simply gotten overturned. "Try now."

Her next attempt did work — kind of. Small bits of rock that had broken off from the bench rolled across the ground and rejoined the larger pieces, melting seamlessly into their original carved shapes so that the large crack in the middle was barely visible.

Geralt pushed at the bench with the tip of his boot. It split again, offering no resistance. "Not bad," he said.

"Not bad?" Yen repeated, eyes flashing dangerously. "It's still broken in two!"

"Gotta start somewhere. They say practice makes—" A tiny pebble rose into the air and launched itself at him, hitting him in the forehead. He reconsidered. "I'll leave you to it."

"Yes, _thank you_." She huffed and sent more pebbles floating upwards with a wave of her arm, but at least launched them away from Geralt this time, pelting the nearby tree trunk. "Go check on Iorveth, will you? I haven't seen him today. Maybe those ghosts decided to kill him after all," she added in a mutter.

***

Geralt stopped in front of Bearach's tomb, hands on his hips, eyeing it measuringly. It looked... different. Better, somehow, despite the unnaturally cool air that surrounded it. The collapsed archway was still collapsed, the small balcony still a moss-covered lump on the ground, and yet...

He walked around the structure slowly, trying to put his finger on it, and figured it out when he spotted a familiar piece of stonework: a carved peacock, its neck and head jutting from the wall, tail feathers fanning out in an elaborate bas-relief behind it. Its beak had been broken, last he'd seen it. He reached out to touch it, and his fingers sank halfway through the bird's head.

Minor illusions. They were all over the stone, smoothing out cracks and chips and restoring the delicate decorative patterns that punctuated almost every surface. Geralt smiled, impressed by the effect, and headed into the tomb.

His breath started puffing in the air as he made his way down the steps. Iorveth sat on one of the low platforms, cheeks flushed with cold despite the lantern beside him, curled in on himself with a small bone in his hand. Geralt tossed the wolf pelt he'd brought over Iorveth's shoulders, then looked at the skeleton he was assembling. One of Bearach's squires, Iorveth had said. He'd cleaned the once-dusty surface of the platform and laid the bones on top of the first shroud he'd completed, the embroidered runes along its edge gleaming in the lantern light. "You'll catch your death in here."

Iorveth shrugged. "It wasn't so bad before you came in." He pulled the fur tighter around himself and set down the bone carefully. Geralt looked at the skeletal hand he'd assembled, snorted, and reached out to fix it. Iorveth grabbed him by the wrist. "Don't touch the bones. In fact, don't touch anything."

"Fine, I'll point. That one's upside down. That one too. And that one's a toe."

It took them some time to put the hand and foot bones into their correct positions. A few ribs had to be switched, too, and the tiny bone in Bearach's right knee was still missing by the time Iorveth called for a break, teeth chattering in the eerie silence. The specters had let up a little, having seemingly realized that Geralt was helping, but the prickle of their anger was still like an annoying itch he couldn't reach in the middle of his back, and he suspected the unnatural cold wouldn't dissipate until he left.

"You should go out, warm up a bit."

Iorveth shook his head, both hands buried into the wolf fur. "Not yet. I want to finish sweeping," he said, nodding toward a broom that stood propped in a corner near a pile of dust and debris. "That bone has to be somewhere."

"Yeah, probably. Can't imagine a tomb robber making off with one kneecap." He sat on the edge of the platform next to Iorveth, carefully avoiding the bones and their shroud, and put one hand on his leg. He still hadn't had his fill of touching him, somehow. "Yen's been working on melding rock together. Going to fix up all of the broken bits out there?

"Yes, if she can manage it. It's a shame about the head, though — I doubt she'll be able to create a new one out of thin air. She doesn't even know what he looks like."

"Mm. I know a few of the people who worked on the big Lebioda statue north of Castel Ravello," he said, thinking of Yen's difficulty with the broken bench. "You must've seen it on your way down."

"Dh'oine?" Iorveth asked. Geralt nodded. "That won't do." He rested his hand on top of Geralt's, then slid his fingers up and under his sleeve, curling them around his wrist. "There's much more to do in here, anyway. I'll deal with the missing head later. You're warm," he added, glancing down.

"Witcher," Geralt replied with a shrug. "I could warm you up."

He'd let a hint of playfulness creep into his voice, and one corner of Iorveth's mouth curled up in response. When Geralt drew him closer, Iorveth allowed their foreheads to touch and their breaths to mingle in the cold air, but kept his lips out of reach. "Tempting as the offer may be, I don't think Bearach would approve."

"Doesn't approve of a whole lot, does he?"

"I doubt you'd be in a much more forgiving mood after rotting in a dusty basement for a few hundred years, robbed of all your belongings."

"Yeah, yeah. I know." He brought his hand up to cup Iorveth's jaw anyway, intending to touch their lips together briefly. Iorveth covered Geralt's hand with his own and turned to press a kiss to the center of his palm instead. His lips were cold, as was the tip of his nose, and he lingered for a moment before finally dropping Geralt's hand and standing up.

"At least make yourself useful, if you're going to be underfoot," he said, though the smile still lingered in his eye and voice. "There's an empty pail outside. Bring it to me."

They made their way to the edge of the clearing, carrying the bucket full of dust and debris he'd swept from the tomb. Iorveth sprawled onto his back with a relieved groan and tilted his head to the sunshine that pierced through the foliage overhead — the cold still lingered around them, but it was nothing like the inside of the tomb.

Geralt perched himself on a nearby tree root and tipped the bucket over, raising a small cloud of dust as the contents tumbled out onto the forest floor. Iorveth sat up, sighing, and they sifted through the debris. Most of it was worthless — animal bones, unidentifiable wood splinters, bits of dried flowers — but Bearach's kneecap turned up, as did a finely carved arrowhead and some small faceted gemstones Geralt suspected belonged to Bearach's statue.

"I suppose I'll have to go back down," Iorveth said, unenthusiastic. He pulled himself to his feet. "Wait here. No need to anger them further."

Geralt nodded and sat back. Iorveth hadn't been gone for long when he heard indistinct voices and the sound of snapping twigs in the woods, coming closer to the clearing at a steady pace. Maybe those vineyard owners had come over to investigate the cold themselves. He stood, thinking to warn them off, but froze when one of them started singing. The voice was low and warm and sounded like—

"Geralt!"

A face appeared between the trees, across the clearing from him, but even at that distance he could see the black-lined eyes, the almost witcher-pale hair. The figure lunged forward, disappeared, and suddenly Ciri was in his arms, laughing joyfully. "Geralt, I've missed you so much," she said into his shoulder as he crushed her against him, lifting her off the ground.

He didn't put her down until Dandelion caught up to them. "You look well, old friend," the bard said, smiling.

"So do you." Wearing slashed silk, of course, and the many rings on his fingers seemed even more ostentatious than usual. "Novigrad treating you well?" Geralt's eyes were drawn to Ciri again — still looking exactly the same, hair still in a messy bun, still more witcher than princess. He couldn't stop smiling. "What are you doing here? I didn't think..." _I didn't think I'd ever see you again_ , he wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat.

"Visiting you, of course." She reached out and squeezed his hand. "We're staying at the Cockatrice for a bit. Yennefer said you'd be here. What's this tomb you're working on?"

Iorveth came into view several paces behind them, bow in hand, looking at Geralt in askance. "I'll tell you about it later," Geralt replied, waving him closer.

Dandelion's face lit up in recognition. "Ah, Iorveth! Good to see you alive and well."

Iorveth nodded. "Likewise." He looked at Ciri, considering, and finally said, "Princess Cirilla."

"Ciri," she corrected, then looked to Geralt for an introduction.

"This is Iorveth, he's staying with us."

"Well," Dandelion said, clapping his hands together, "this calls for a proper reunion. You _have_ to tell me everything about this vampire attack. Over some wine, preferably. You won't believe what I've been up to, Geralt. I can't wait to tell you about the City of Golden Towers."

Ciri grabbed his hand again and pulled, leading him back toward Corvo Bianco. Geralt followed, his heart feeling two sizes too big for his chest, barely even hearing Dandelion's yammering on the way home.

***

"B.B., open up one of the kegs of Sangreal. Got some guests over for dinner today."

Barnabas-Basil opened his mouth to reply, then saw Ciri standing next to him. The blood drained from his face and he flung himself out of his chair, falling to one knee on the floor in front of them.

"That happens a lot," Dandelion commented.

"This isn't a formal visit," Ciri said. "Please stand. And call me Ciri."

"As— as you say, your Imperial Majesty. Ciri. Of course." Barnabas-Basil stood and shot Geralt an outraged look, eyes bulging in his head, before shuffling out of the house backwards in an awkward half-bow.

Iorveth disappeared into the kitchen with Marlene. Ciri suggested a campfire, a whim Geralt was happy to indulge, and soon the sun was setting and he, Yen, Dandelion and Ciri all sat around the crackling flames, trading tales from the past year. He didn't have much to say once he'd covered Dettlaff's attack. Ciri shared the latest scandals from the Nilfgaardian court, and Dandelion, for his part, had somehow earned himself the patronage of one Emhyr var Emreis and was staying in the capital, where _true_ art was appreciated. Geralt suspected he was being made to write songs about Ciri's exploits to sway public opinion, but couldn't bring himself to care. Ciri deserved to have songs written about her.

Barnabas-Basil, now in his stiffest ruff and most formal doublet, brought them a fresh decanter of Sangreal. He was soon followed by Iorveth, whose arms were laden with food. Geralt perked up at the sight — between helping Yen with her spellwork and Iorveth with his skeletons, and then the unexpected visitors, he'd completely forgotten to eat.

Iorveth passed around utensils and bowls filled with roasted pears that smelled of mustard and honey, then sat close to the fire and started cooking flatbreads on the stones that encircled it.

"If this is how the Scoia'tael eat in their camps, I may yet be swayed to join the cause," Dandelion proclaimed with his mouth already full of pear. Iorveth gave him a half-smile, but didn't respond.

"Geralt, will you tell us about your tomb now?" Ciri asked, elbowing him.

Geralt poked her in the side and grinned at the smack on the arm he received in return. "Fine. It's Iorveth's tomb, though. He promised a bunch of ghosts in there that he'd fix it up for them, give them a proper funeral. They're getting impatient. 'S why it was cold out there."

"Was it?" Ciri said, frowning. "I didn't even notice. Too happy to see you, I suppose."

Iorveth held a flatbread out to her. It was filled with something that smelled even better than the pears. Geralt grabbed it and took a large bite, earning himself another elbow to the ribs. Venison mincemeat with dried grapes and currants, rich and flavorful, cooked in red wine. Definitely not Scoia'tael fare. More of the flatbreads were passed around, and the conversation died down as they dug in.

"Have you met my little weasel since the attack? I do wonder how she's doing," Dandelion said wistfully once he'd set down his empty bowl, turning his head to gaze off into the distance in the general direction of the Beauclair palace.

"Couple of times. She hasn't remarried yet, maybe you still have a chance."

"Er, yes, well. On that note. We didn't exactly part on great terms, so I would appreciate it if you kept my presence here quiet. My room at the Cockatrice is under a fake name."

"By 'didn't part on great terms', he means the duquessa banished him from Toussaint," Ciri explained, looking entirely too amused. Geralt shook his head. He wasn't surprised to hear it, somehow.

"What could you possibly have done to your lover that would require the duquessa's intervention?" Iorveth asked. His expression changed as he figured out that Dandelion's lover and the duquessa were in fact one and the same. "'Little weasel', really?"

"He's an idiot," Geralt offered in explanation.

"She likes it!"

"I may not know much about women, but I'm fairly certain none of them want to be called a _weasel_."

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Ciri's eyes narrow thoughtfully at the remark. He looked away and drained his goblet.

Geralt had no ear for music. He found Dandelion's voice pleasant enough but his maudlin lyrics rarely roused much emotion in him, even with copious amounts of Sangreal coursing through his veins.

Iorveth, however, was trembling. He'd settled down on his back with his head on Geralt's lap to listen, relaxed from the wine, and Dandelion had started to sing of fire raining from the sky and of the dragon queen being struck down. When Geralt looked down, Iorveth had his teeth clenched and his eye squeezed shut, face turned away from the fire, shaking with the effort not to cry. _Axii_ was tempting, but Geralt didn't think he'd appreciate it, somehow.

Yen reached over and put a hand on Iorveth's head. He twitched away and waved it off, tears dripping onto Geralt's trousers. Geralt tried unsuccessfully to give her a warning look. "There's no need to hide your grief," she said softly in the Elder Speech. "Your tears honor the fallen."

"Stop your condescending nonsense, witch, and listen to the song," he answered through gritted teeth without even looking at her. It lacked any kind of bite, his voice quivering and muffled by Geralt's clothing. Yen raised her eyes skyward and placed her arm back around Geralt's waist.

He kissed her temple, then focused his attention back to Dandelion in time to catch the end of the song. Something about blood running in rivulets down the sloped streets of Vergen, as if the very streets were "crying crimson tears for its fallen champion". Dandelion's voice faded, and he paused to take in the somber faces around the fire before coaxing slow, idle chords from his lute to fill the silence.

"That was good," Ciri offered from above her goblet, the mild surprise in her voice making Geralt smile. "Better than the one about the naughty maiden you've been playing every night."

"Yes, well. This one isn't nearly as popular in taverns." Dandelion glanced at Iorveth, then looked away, plucking at random strings.

Ciri followed his line of sight and grinned. "I can see why. You've put him to sleep."

"I'm awake," Iorveth replied, his voice back under control, and turned his head to face them again. Ciri and Dandelion wouldn't notice his spiky eyelashes in this light. "We have similar songs about Aelirenn. Saskia would have been honored to hear this."

"Aelirenn... The White Rose of Shaerrawedd," Dandelion said, frowning. Iorveth nodded, and after a short pause, Dandelion bent over his instrument again and strummed a few chords from the piece he'd just played, muttering. "The rose... The golden rose of the Pontar..."

"Iorveth," Ciri called out, leaving him to his lute. "You can't just say something like that without singing us a song. I'd love to hear about Aelirenn."

Geralt had heard Iorveth lead marching songs for his squirrels on a couple of occasions. He had a voice like a dying harpy and a repertoire focused on plucking the eyes from dh'oine and burning down their homes. Ciri would have laughed herself silly.

"That was quite enough tragedy for one night," Yennefer said. "Why don't you play us something instead?"

Iorveth hesitated, then pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Fine. I'll go fetch my flute." He stood, swaying a little, and headed off toward the house.

"And more wine!" Dandelion called out.

***

Geralt woke up late the next morning with his mouth tasting like a sewer, feeling like he'd dreamed up most of the previous day. Yen and Iorveth were already gone, probably working on the tomb, and so he rode out to the Cockatrice, feeling stupid for it but wanting confirmation that Ciri was in fact in Toussaint, there to see him.

There were two guards at the entrance to the inn, their stances carefully nonchalant but their dark eyes sharp as they kept watch. They noticed his approach quickly, and Geralt knew they were Ciri's before he even heard the quick mutter of " _het vatt'ghern_ " that passed between them. There were a couple more guards inside, too, dressed like farmhands and trying to blend in despite their neat haircuts and carefully manicured nails.

" _E'er y glòir_ ," Geralt said quietly to one of them as he walked by, just to amuse himself, but then he spotted Ciri and forgot about the man entirely. She was sitting at a corner table, a deep green hood obscuring her face, a stack of letters and the remnants of her breakfast at her elbow. He sat down across from her, and her eyes lit up when she saw him.

"I've barely finished my breakfast. Did you miss me that much?" she asked, teasing.

"Yes."

She reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze. "I'll be meeting the ambassador later today, but I can get away for a few hours."

"Let's go for a ride," Geralt said, then gestured vaguely behind himself with his free hand. "You allowed to shake them off?"

"Yes, if you're with me. Dandelion said something about sunflower fields — is that far from here? It sounds beautiful."

He took her to see the sunflowers, and the statue of Lebioda the next day, and Lake Célavy the next. They hunted pheasants, bought wine from the vineyards they passed by to drink in the shade, shopped for new swords at Lazare's shop, and raced each other down empty stretches of road (though Roach had no hope of winning against Ciri's purebred stallion). She often had to slip away to write letters or meet with what Geralt assumed were important people, but they were spending more time together than not, and he rode home to Corvo Bianco every day with his throat sore from talking to her and his face hurting from smiling so much.

Dandelion, perhaps unsurprisingly, preferred to laze around Corvo Bianco. He'd taken to hounding Iorveth for elven songs whenever he wasn't working on the tomb — he'd watch him in uncharacteristic silence, eyes trained on his flute as if he were trying to memorize every note. Once they'd exhausted his flute repertoire, Dandelion talked him into singing, much to Yen's dismay, and strummed his lute along to the nasal, eye-watering ballads, drinking songs, and fragments of lullabies that echoed over the estate.

It was perfect.

***

Geralt slipped Roach a toffee from his pocket and pulled her to a stop next to Corvo Bianco's well. She'd worked up a sweat — they both had, thanks to Ciri's suggestion to hunt barghests near Trastamara Estate. He pulled off his shirt, abandoning it on the edge of the well, and dumped a bucket of water over his own head before rinsing Roach off.

He led her to the stables, full bucket in hand, and grabbed a sponge to clean the dust and mud from her coat. It didn't take long before Yen wandered over, carrying a book, and perched herself on a barrel that stood near the open doors. When he looked up again, halfway through his task, Iorveth had joined her. Geralt snorted to himself and squeezed more water onto Roach's rump. He'd noticed that he often acquired an audience when he groomed the horses. He wasn't sure why, but liked having them there.

He'd moved on to combing Roach's mane when Barnabas-Basil's voice rang out from outside: "The Duchess is coming, Geralt." He leaned into the stable, a scrap of parchment in his hand. "She'll be here within the hour."

So she knew about Dandelion. Or perhaps she'd finally heard about Iorveth and his crimes, from Godefroy de Babineaux or otherwise. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Iorveth raise his upper body from the bale of hay he'd been leaning back against. "Thank you," Geralt said with a nod, and Barnabas-Basil turned on his heel and headed back to the house. "Wait— send a message to the Cockatrice, make sure Dandelion stays away from Corvo Bianco today."

"Yes, sir."

"Perhaps she's come to pay her respects," Yen said, book now closed and resting in her lap.

"To _Iorveth_? For what, eating an entire date loaf?" He bent over a tenacious knot in Roach's mane, pulling a few hairs free. "Not to imply that wasn't impressive."

"I know the idyllic rolling hills and ridiculous accent make it easy to forget, Geralt, but you are in Nilfgaard. He's a war hero; do try to keep up."

Iorveth laughed with infinite bitterness. "Of course. The Duchess of Toussaint, come to pin a silver lightning bolt medal to my chest years after the Emperor sent us off to be slaughtered like cattle in return for our service."

"You've spent the past few years hiding in bushes, what would _you_ know of local politics?" Yen asked. Geralt glanced up, carding his fingers through the now-smooth section of Roach's mane, and her tone softened after her eyes met his. "Anna Henrietta is a fanciful lass with a penchant for fairytales. She's merely curious. If she wanted to have you arrested, she'd send a few guards."

"Perhaps," Iorveth granted grudgingly. An uneasy sort of silence fell over them. Yen picked up her book again. Geralt started brushing Roach's tail and considered changing into clean boots and trousers. Or perhaps putting a shirt on.

Iorveth stood, suddenly, and brushed some hay off himself. "I'm going after the bandits who stole my horse. Up north. Should be back in a few days." And with that he headed inside, presumably to pack. Geralt watched him leave, brow furrowed and brush still in hand.

"He's afraid of her," Yennefer remarked.

"Mm. Not unreasonable, considering." He dropped the brush to the ground and patted Roach on the nose, then joined her on the barrel.

She scooted aside, making room for him. "It is unreasonable. What is she going to do, put a silk bow on him and have him carted off to Roche's cave? Toussaint has no interest in that particular fight."

"Yeah, well. Said it yourself, we're in Nilfgaard. You know what happened last time he put his trust in them."

"He'll just get himself hurt again." She stared off toward the house, shaking her head slightly, then stood and pressed her book into Geralt's chest. "I'll go with him. You stay here and talk to her."

"What," Geralt said, hand reflexively shooting up to grab the book. Yen walked away without offering any explanation. Sympathy, or maybe misplaced guilt, he thought. There were some whispers of Lodge involvement in the Peace of Cintra that had cost most of the Vrihedd Brigade officers their lives. Geralt had known better than to poke his nose into it.

Iorveth was back in the stable about ten minutes later, armor and weapons on, a bag slung over his shoulder, and wearing, amusingly, one of Yennefer's riding cloaks, pitch black with a pointed hood and silver thread along the edges. He started saddling Barnabas-Basil's well-rested gelding, throwing a nonchalant "I'm borrowing a horse" over his shoulder halfway through the task.

Geralt heard Yen's approaching footsteps and stood, leaving the book behind to prepare her horse for the long ride to the mountains.

He turned back to them once he was done. "Be careful," he said, needlessly. They stood elbow to elbow in their matching cloaks and rolled their eyes at him, and he was hit with a sudden burst of affection that made him grab Yen by the waist and plant a kiss on her.

Yen smiled against his lips. "I can handle a few bandits. As you well know." She stepped around him and pushed him into Iorveth before mounting her mare.

Iorveth looked at him. "... Need anything? Newt eyes and frog toes for your potions?" he asked mockingly. Geralt took his face in his hands and kissed him too.

"Arenaria, if you see any," he replied once he'd had a moment to think about it. " _Flige_. You know it?" Iorveth nodded and turned away. He and Yen rode off together, their horses raising dust in the air as they trotted side by side down the small path that led out of the estate.

Geralt watched them go, hands on his hips, then closed his eyes and listened for the sound of carriage wheels that would herald the duchess's approach.

***

"You mean to tell us the elf isn't here? We heard otherwise. And quite recently, too."

He'd opted against donning a shirt, in the end, but Anna Henrietta wasn't as easy an audience as Yen and Iorveth were; she hadn't been moved by the sight, aside from a quick glance downwards when she'd met him in front of the stables. Damien stood behind her with his mouth twisted in distaste under his thick moustache, his gaze lingering some of the worst scars as if he'd forgotten Geralt had acquired a fair few of them while saving Beauclair.

"You just missed him. Should be back within a few days, though, if you want to speak to him."

Ana Henrietta eyed him as if trying to determine whether he was lying. "Is it true that he is a Scoia'tael?"

"Yes."

"A veteran from the Vrihedd Brigade," she added, and it wasn't quite a question. One of her advisors must have figured out Iorveth's identity based on Godefroy's description of him and his association with Geralt. "Should we expect trouble?"

"No. He came here alone. He's helping me with a contract." Close enough, anyway.

"A contract? What manner of creature would necessitate the help of a Scoia'tael?"

"Restless spirits in the ruins of a tomb, not far from here. Elves. He thinks— we think he can pacify them by restoring the tomb."

"I see. And the thefts?"

"He was hungry. His belongings were stolen by bandits on his way here. Sir Godefroy could've found that out if he'd asked him a few questions instead of attacking him on sight."

"Our knights can hardly be blamed for trying to apprehend a dangerous—"

"Stealing an onion is dangerous?" Geralt cut in, seeing Ana Henrietta frown at the interruption but unable to stop himself. "He was _hungry_. They almost killed him."

The duquessa seemed taken aback by this, as if the knights had been selective in the recounting of their attempt to _apprehend_ Iorveth. "Well," she said after a short pause, "as you've already paid for the stolen food, I see no reason to pursue the matter of his crimes any further. If you are willing to vouch that he is no longer a danger to our subjects, we will take you at your word." She turned to Damien. "Have Sir Godefroy summoned to the palace."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"We will await Iorveth's return before calling on you again. I trust he will be willing to meet us then," she added, giving Geralt a measuring look before turning on her heels. The driver of her carriage rushed over to open its door for her, and Damien shook his head at Geralt, disapproving of him so intensely for speaking over the duquessa that he was nearly vibrating with it. Geralt gave him a little wave goodbye behind Ana Henrietta's back.

***

The quiet that fell over the estate was disconcerting, after months of having Yen right there with him, the rustling of book pages well within a witcher's earshot even when she sat outside. Not to mention, of course, Iorveth's pained grumbling and the stink of his herbs, which already felt oddly familiar. Ciri had business at the Nilfgaardian embassy in Beauclair and Dandelion had gone with her, which meant Geralt suddenly found himself with a lot of time to kill.

He found the first morning easy enough to fill; his vigneron Estienne came to visit him, as if sensing that the angry elf was finally gone, and presented him with a few samples of soil, grapes, and olives to smell and taste. Every word that came out of Geralt's mouth was noted down religiously before Estienne scurried off to oversee... whatever it was he oversaw in the late summer. Geralt hadn't managed to muster up much interest for winemaking or olive oil, though he didn't mind lending his senses to the task. If Barnabas-Basil and Estienne were to be trusted, he'd have more florens than he'd know what to do with by this time next year.

The afternoon he spent rearranging the mess of alchemy equipment and ingredients in the cellar, then tinkering with one or two bomb recipes. The sun was already setting when he emerged, stinking of alchemists' powder, and after he'd had a quick wash Barnabas-Basil intercepted him for chicken sandwiches and a few games of gwent.

A few games turned into several. They washed down the sandwiches with wine — enough that Geralt's playing got a little sloppy and Barnabas-Basil finally beat him by a respectable margin with his Nilfgaard deck.

"The estate is rather quiet today," Barnabas-Basil said as he gathered his cards, having paused with his hand on Yen's card as if he'd suddenly noticed her absence.

"Uh-huh. Just like the good old days. Can't say I missed your cooking, though."

Barnabas-Basil gave his empty plate a rather pointed look, but didn't comment. He glanced at the cards still lying on Geralt's side of the table, a smile playing on his lips, and finally said: "If your deck is based on your previous conquests, Geralt, then I must say you have a very impressive record indeed."

Geralt looked down at the cards left on the table. Yen featured in his deck, too, along with Iorveth and a handful of other Scoia'tael and sorceresses. He snorted. "Did my reputation follow me all the way to Toussaint?"

"I have heard some ballads, though nothing about..." He glanced down and made an aborted gesture toward Iorveth's card. "Well. It's none of my concern, of course. Forgive my unfortunate jest." He straightened his back and adjusted his spectacles, recovering some of his usual primness. "News of your private affairs will not travel beyond the estate. I've already spoken to—"

"Relax." Geralt drank more wine, eyes on the cards. He was curious, now. "What if it did travel beyond the estate?"

"With the recent influx of Nilfgaardians to the city, such things have become less uncommon in Beauclair. Though there are those, of course, that would look down upon, er, _associating_ with an elf, regardless of gender. But the gentry do like a good scandal, especially one involving the mysterious witcher of Corvo Bianco. You would likely receive even more invitations to soirees and banquets."

He made a face at that; there was already a pile of perfumed letters on a small table by the entrance, all of which he studiously ignored unless they involved monsters or curses of some kind. Barnabas-Basil gathered them up and wrote polite refusals on his behalf every now and then.

"Oh, that reminds me." Barnabas-Basil suddenly stood, grabbing the edge of the table for balance, and walked over to said letters to rifle through them. "I finally had the chance to see the elven tomb for myself the other day, and... a-ha!" he exclaimed, brandishing a piece of paper. He sat back down heavily and set it down in front of Geralt.

It was an invitation to the Tufo vineyard from Jean-Christophe de Bourbeau and his new wife. He vaguely remembered ignoring the invitation to their wedding a few months ago. "What's this got to do with the tomb?" he asked, frowning. Tufo was on the other side of the river, much too far to be affected by the unnatural cold.

"You must go and see for yourself. I can't be certain, but I believe Monsieur de Bourbeau has something in his home that would be of use."

"Something of Bearach's?"

"Yes. His head."

"Mmm. Fine, I'll go." He pushed the invitation aside, picked up his deck and gave it a quick shuffle. "Ten crowns— ten florens you can't beat me without using spy cards."

Barnabas-Basil tilted his head, considering the offer. "No spies or _conquests_ ," he countered, grinning.

Geralt snorted and fanned out his cards onto the table, eyeing the little portraits. "You're on. Gimme a minute."

***

Geralt rode out to the Tufo vineyard early the next evening. Some of the farmhands gave each other worried glances as he passed by, as if afraid that another shaelmaar had made its home under their feet. He banged on the door a few times and waited.

Jean-Christophe already seemed irritated when he came to the door, and the lines across his brow only deepened when he saw Geralt. "Witcher. What brings you here at this hour?" he said, his enunciation very crisp on the last three words.

"Sent me an invitation, didn't you?"

"Yes, an invitation to a small soiree with some of my associates, to which my dear wife thought a witcher's extravagant tales would be an amusing addition. A soiree, might I mention, that occurred _two weeks ago_."

Geralt shrugged. "I'm here now."

Jean-Christophe's nostrils flared. "One might have hoped that even a Nordling would pick up some manners after living in Toussaint for so long, but alas, it seems—"

"Jean-Christophe? Is that the witcher?"

It was the new Madame de Bourbeau, younger and prettier than her predecessor, though she had a vaguely harassed look about her that Geralt would've bet hadn't been there before she'd married the bastard. "Geralt of Rivia, madame. Pleasure to meet you."

Her face lit up. "Will you stay for supper, monsieur? We were just sitting down. I've been dying to hear how you saved Jean-Christophe from that dreadful monster." She looked to Jean-Christophe for approval, and to Geralt's surprise, a few of the lines on his face smoothed over as he glanced back at his smiling wife.

"Very well," he said, sighing. "I suppose the help can scrape something together for you."

Geralt followed them to the dining room. He didn't have to look for Bearach's head for very long — it was right there at one end of the room, its pale blue beryl eyes staring forward, the tip of its helmet chiseled flat to hold a long piece of varnished wood upon which rested a candelabra and two vases filled with fresh flowers. "Nice elven sculpture you've got there," he said through gritted teeth, clamping down on the anger that had flared suddenly within him at the sight. He was spending too much time with Iorveth.

Jean-Christophe glanced back at it and nodded. "Yes, thank you. It's been in my family for many generations."

Despite his threat to serve him scraps, madame de Bourbeau made sure Geralt was well fed and kept his goblet full of expensive-tasting wine as he went over his investigation of the estate and fight with the shaelmaar. He took his time with it, going through enough wine to annoy Jean-Christophe. Madame de Bourbeau listened with rapt attention, shivering at his description of the kikimores and laughing in delight as he swished a piece of baguette through the air in lieu of his sword.

"How lucky we are to have a witcher living so close to our home!" she exclaimed once he was done.

"Yeah," Geralt said, suddenly inspired, "especially with those elven ghosts around."

She took the bait, eyes widening as she leaned forward in her seat. "Elven ghosts?"

"Mmhm. Maybe you've heard about the cold spots over on my side of the river?" He looked at Jean-Christophe, aiming the question at him, and he nodded.

"Yes, some strange, unseasonal weather. I heard the crops might be affected."

"Nothing to do with the weather. There's a tomb in the woods, not too far from Corvo Bianco. An elven commander and his troops. The place got desecrated, and now they're angry." He paused for effect, then pointed at the head. "That's him. The commander."

Madame de Bourbeau blanched as if the ghost of Bearach had materialized in her dining room. "Oh... oh no. Jean-Christophe, we can't keep this in our home!"

Jean-Christophe scoffed. "That's nonsense, witcher. Ghosts affecting the weather?"

Geralt shrugged. "Keep it, then. It'd be a shame if he learned his head got turned into a table, though."

"How would a ghost _learn_ things? Are you saying you've been _talking_ to this supposed ghost?"

"Nah, doesn't want to talk to me. But there's an elf staying at my estate and _he's_ been talking to him. He's trying to fix up the tomb and calm the ghosts down. Maybe you've seen him around. One eye, Scoia'tael. Fought in the Vrihedd brigade. Wouldn't want to get on his bad side."

"Witcher, if you're trying to threaten me—"

"He's looking out for us!" Madame de Bourbeau interjected. "Elven magic is dangerous. My grandpapa's brother Emile found an old elven sword in the forest once, and the pox took him not a month later!" That sounded a lot like a coincidence and not at all like an elven curse, but Geralt let it slide. "We must get rid of it."

"It is a family heirloom worth _thousands_ of florens."

"This entire estate would've have been destroyed without Geralt's help, yes? And—" She placed her hand on top of Jean-Christophe's. "And we wouldn't have met if it weren't for him. And now here he is again, warning us about a horrible elven curse. I trust his judgment. This is a small price to pay."

Jean-Christophe's expression was as pinched as ever, but he squeezed his wife's fingers lightly with his thumb, and Geralt knew he had him.

It took him and a few of the farmhands the better part of an hour to push the head out of the house and secure it behind Roach with half of an old barrel and lengths of sturdy rope. He patted Roach's neck, whispering an apology to her for the extra weight, then walked back to the front door, where Jean-Christophe had been watching with his arms crossed.

"Thanks, J.C. Or rather, thank your wife for me. She's a good woman. Don't deserve her."

Jean-Christophe gave him a long, hard look. "I know," he said, then closed the door firmly in his face.

***

The sun was setting on the third day of Yen and Iorveth's absence when they finally came back, Yen breaking his meditation with her warm lips on his cheek. The world faded into view again, along with the smell of grass and grapes and the sounds of the vineyard. He'd been kneeling on the balcony, out of the way of the workers who'd long ago learned to ignore him and his odd stillness.

Iorveth ran his fingers through Geralt's hair as he walked by him and into the house. He had a bag slung over his shoulder, adorned with squirrel tails that swung by at Geralt's eye level. His clothes were streaked with dried blood... and so were Yen's.

"Went well?" he asked her.

"Yes, yes. He has his knick-knacks back and all of the bandits are dead. I believe I managed to talk some sense into him as well." At Geralt's raised eyebrow, she added, "He said he'll meet the duquessa, provided she's still interested. There's even a chance he won't cause a diplomatic incident between Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms in the process."

"What'd you do, threaten him?"

"Maybe. I'll have Barnabas-Basil send word to her. And then I shall have a very long soak." She pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then rose and walked off toward Barnabas-Basil's house. An unfamiliar grey horse caught Geralt's eye as he watched her go. It was grazing near the stable and evidently Iorveth's, judging by the ribbons in Scoia'tael shades of red and green braided into its mane and the thick embroided thread that decorated its saddle, matching his quiver. A saddle of elven make would've been an exotic prize for a local bandit — Geralt wasn't surprised they'd targeted him.

He dusted himself off and followed Iorveth up to the guest room, where he found him rifling through his bag, its contents spread haphazardly on his bed. He glanced up when Geralt entered but kept digging, extracting an old knife, a few handfuls of crumpled arenaria, and finally a headband made of twisted red and white fabric, which he started looping around his wrist. Saskia's.

"Found everything?"

Iorveth tugged at one end of the headband with his teeth, securing it in place with a tight knot. "Yes. Several horses as well. We sold them on the way back. I'll be able to replace the gemstones on the statue after all."

"That reminds me — I found the head."

Iorveth looked up, frowning. "You found the head of the statue?" he repeated. Geralt nodded, and for one brief moment Iorveth simply stared at him with an odd look in his eye. Finally he crossed the room and raised one hand to Geralt's jaw, his thumb brushing against his cheek, then kissed him so gently it felt almost reverent. "Humanity does not deserve to have you in its service."

Geralt looked away, feeling like he'd accidentally swallowed a Dancing Star. "Wasn't that difficult. B.B.'s the one who told me where to find it."

"Is it here?"

"No. Dropped it off at the tomb." He slipped his arms around Iorveth's waist as he moved in again, pressing their lips together. "Should be kissing Roach, if anything. She worked harder than I did."

"I'll find her a sugar cube," he replied, smiling, then glanced over his shoulder. "This is hardly a fair trade, but I found the _flige_ you wanted."

"I saw. Thank you."

"I want to see the head." One last, lingering kiss, then Iorveth stepped out of his embrace and grabbed his bag, shouldering it again. "Yennefer wanted the first bath, anyway."

Geralt frowned. "It's getting late. You must be hungry."

"I won't be long." He brushed past Geralt on his way downstairs, and Geralt heard the quiet rumble of his stomach before he disappeared from view. He snorted and trailed after him to find Marlene and request an early dinner.

***

Geralt followed the scent of Yen's lilac soap up what he was growing to think of as Iorveth's room, where he found him sitting on the bed, working on the buckles of a new pair of boots. His shirt seemed new, too, and two small braids hung in front of his ears.

"Huh. Planning to seduce the duquessa?"

Iorveth narrowed his eye at him as he stood, then shrugged, looking defensive. He'd left his missing eye uncovered. A purposeful move, Geralt suspected, as was the prominent display of the emblems he'd taken from dead Northerners, pinned to the leather strap of his quiver across his chest.

He climbed the last few steps and Iorveth grabbed his bow from its spot against the wall, strapping it to his back. He wasn't in pain any longer, and the easy grace of his movements made something squirm in Geralt's stomach.

"You look beautiful," he said, unable not to. Iorveth scowled at him, then seemed to realize he was serious. He opened his mouth, closed it again, frowning, and adjusted the strap on his chest.

"Well," he finally said in the Elder Speech, "with a wolf already so deluded, I scarcely see the need to seduce a weasel."

"Revolting," Yen said from somewhere down near Geralt's feet. She was standing on the stairs, one elbow propped on the floor, a small smile on her lips. He hadn't even heard her. "She's here. Do try not to call her a weasel to her face."

Iorveth marched down the stairs as if into battle, jaw tight. They met Anna Henrietta in front of the house, where she stood rivaling the mid-morning sun in a golden dress heavy with pearls and gleaming amber beads. Damien de la Tour and half a dozen guard stood a few paces away, and further behind three curious children were helping Barnabas-Basil with the horses, stealing frequent looks at the Duchess and her shiny entourage.

"Your Grace," Yen said. Geralt followed suit, bowing.

Iorveth did not bow. "Duchess," he said, managing at least to sound neutral.

"It's lovely to see you again," Anna Henrietta replied, then looked at Iorveth. Geralt noticed her noticing the Northern emblems. "And it's an honor to meet you, Iorveth. We've heard much about your exploits."

She'd switched to the Elder Speech, slow and Nilfgaard-accented but flawless in its syntax. Iorveth seemed unimpressed; his smile was brittle and his retort in Common. "I assure you I regret every single one."

"Every single one? Perhaps the accounts I heard of the battle for Vergen were exaggerated, then. And perhaps you did not in fact help Colonel Faoiltiarna escape from Brugge?" Her advisors had done their research, Geralt had to grant her that much. Iorveth stayed stiff and silent, eyes narrowed at her, and she went on. "Nilfgaard has precious little power over Toussaint's affairs, Iorveth, and we have even less over theirs. Surely you do not blame us for the Peace of Cintra?" She gave Yen a rather sharp glance at that, and Geralt found himself thinking that perhaps they'd been underestimating the woman.

"No, but—"

"Then let us speak as friends rather than dwell on shameful decisions that can no longer be undone." She unclasped her hands and gestured toward the rolling hills of Corvo Bianco. "Geralt, will you show us around? It's a beautiful day. I would like to see how the vineyard is doing."

"Of course." He caught Yen and Iorveth exchanging looks and wondered if this had gone the way they'd expected it to. It hadn't sounded too bad to him, but Iorveth still looked like he expected Anna Henrietta to take out his one remaining eye with a hairpin at any moment.

Damien made to follow them until Anna Henrietta stopped him with a shake of her head. "I promise she'll be back in one piece," Geralt said. "B.B. will give you some wine and something to eat while you wait." He looked at the guards as he spoke, including them in the invitation, and spotted two or three of them smiling — they were no doubt eager to sample the aged Sepremento that languished in the cellar.

He led Anna Henrietta, Yen and Iorveth through the flower garden and on a leisurely path around the vineyard. They chit-chatted about the upcoming harvest and the improvements he'd made to the estate, and after a few minutes Anna Henrietta and Iorveth fell a few paces behind, leaving Yen at Geralt's side with her arm in his.

He eavesdropped shamelessly.

"We are grateful for your help defeating Otker's hanse. They'd stolen a shipment of Toussaint Red just a few days ago — had you heard?"

"No. They'd stolen something from me."

"The countryside will be safer for it, regardless of your motives. We were sorry to hear of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your arrival to the duchy, and sorrier to hear that our knights did not provide assistance. Sir Godefroy has been reprimanded for his cruelty."

Iorveth laughed, flat and humorless. "And you expect me to be grateful for it, no doubt. What about the peasants who spat on me and refused me water from their wells? Have they been reprimanded as well, Your Grace?"

Geralt sighed. "There he goes," he muttered.

"I suppose one can't teach an old elf new tricks after all," Yen said quietly.

"... hundreds of years. They are superstitious and wary of outsiders. But you'll find you receive a better welcome in Beauclair, I'm sure. Some of us are quite interested in Aen Seidhe culture."

"Yes, interested enough to steal from the dead and let whatever you deem not to be valuable crumble to dust."

There was a moment of silence, but Anna Henrietta somehow kept her composure. "Geralt did mention you have been helping him pacify elven spirits. We, of course, do not endorse the pillaging of tombs."

"Only the pillaging of cities and palaces, then."

"Are you familiar with the Carvanere rose, Your Grace?" Yen cut in rather loudly, turning to look at her as she gestured to the rose bushes that stood neatly at the end of each row of grapevines. They were heavy with large, peach-colored blossoms, the crimped edges of each petal fading to a delicate pink. One of Yen's early contributions to Corvo Bianco — she'd found mention of the roses in a book that detailed the history of the estate.

Anna Henrietta's eyes lingered on Iorveth, her lips pressed together in displeasure, but after a few seconds she approached them. The irritation at Iorveth's behavior left her expression when she looked at the flowers. "Oh! How beautiful. And just like the Sepremento label, aren't they? I thought these flowers had all died decades ago, before Count Crespi took over the estate."

And they'd had. Yen had found the dried-out remnants of a rosebush and somehow used them to conjure up several dozen saplings, which had grown into bushes that were permanently in full bloom, seemingly immune to heat and dehydration, and, Geralt suspected, only alive by the most generous definition of the word. His medallion always hummed when he walked past them. "Yen's got a green thumb," he told the duchess. "Nursed them right back to health."

"Truly?" Anna Henrietta asked, running her fingertips over one of the unnaturally perfect, probably undead flowers. "You've put our gardeners to shame. These would make a lovely addition to the palace gardens, should you be willing to part with a few cuttings."

Yen inclined her head slightly at the compliment. "It would be an honor, Your Grace. I will have some delivered to the palace. Along with detailed instructions for their care, of course."

It was all too easy to picture the ducal gardeners being made to sprinkle the bushes with Sangreal every three hours or play them the lute under the full moon. He gave Yen a quelling look. She smiled at him.

"And what of the olive trees? Will you also continue the production of olive oil?"

Geralt nodded. "This way," he said, gesturing for Anna Henrietta to follow. Iorveth trailed after them sullenly.

Iorveth took off his bow and quiver and tossed them carelessly onto the dining table before flopping into a chair. "An invitation to the palace," he sneered, picking listlessly at the remains of a cheese plate Anna Henrietta's guards had demolished. "How ridiculous."

"I told you. She'll let you have a shiny bauble from her collection of elven artifacts so she can feel good about herself for furthering human-elf relations."

Geralt ignored the conversation — this was getting dangerously close to being involved in politics, and he'd had enough of _that_ to last him even a witcher's lifetime — and positioned himself behind Iorveth's chair, digging his fingertips into his tense shoulders. Iorveth endured the massage for a few moments before shrugging him off, but didn't protest when Geralt's fingers went to his hair instead, carding through it and undoing the small braids as he found them.

Barnabas-Basil slipped into the room, and a goblet of herb cordial appeared at Iorveth's elbow. "Anything else, Geralt?"

"No, go home," he replied, glancing up from his work. "Thank you."

Barnabas-Basil nodded. The front door creaked, and Iorveth's hair shone in the dim light, the loosened strands of the last braid slipping through Geralt's fingers. He ruffled it and Iorveth leaned into the touch, the last of the tension leaving his body as he brought the goblet to his lips.

"And speaking of furthering human-elf relations," Yen said, something teasing in her tone. She ran one hand down his back slowly and craned her neck to speak into his ear. "Take him to bed."

"You sure?"

"You've been dying to all day." She smacked his buttock lightly and stepped away. "Shoo. I'll join you in a bit."

She'd said it so nonchalantly that it took a second for the words to sink in. It was like swallowing a draught of too-potent Maribor Forest, a bright spark travelling down Geralt's spine, quickening his heartbeat. He looked down at Iorveth, expecting him to object to the idea, but saw only the curl of a smile against the edge of his goblet. Had they _planned_ this?

His mind spun in circles, and he watched dumbly as Yen disappeared into their bedroom. Iorveth stood and made it a few steps up the stairs before Geralt remembered to move. He followed, and Iorveth wasted no time once they reached the guest room, working at the fastenings of Geralt's clothes with one hand, his goblet still in the other. Geralt yanked his own shirt off and tossed it aside.

"You _are_ eager today," Iorveth commented, brushing the pad of his thumb against Geralt's nipple. Geralt couldn't think of a response — he was too busy _wanting_. Iorveth's fingers trailed their way down, and he palmed at Geralt's cock through his trousers, sipping at the liquor. It wasn't nearly enough. Geralt grabbed at his collar with unsteady hands, then went for his slim hips instead, trying to pull him closer. Iorveth kissed him hard, once, and took a step back. "Get on your hands and knees."

Geralt made quick work of the rest of his clothes, nearly falling over as he pulled off his boots. He clambered into bed and peered over his shoulder at Iorveth's indistinct silhouette in the dark room. There was the dull sound of his goblet being set down, some rummaging, and Geralt inhaled sharply in surprise as Iorveth dripped oil over him. The tickling sensation as it trickled down to his balls made him squirm and fist his hands into the sheets. "Come on," he muttered.

Iorveth rubbed one fingertip over him, then pushed in slowly. Still not enough. Geralt dropped to his elbows and pushed back against it, looking for a better angle, for more.

"Light the lantern," Iorveth said, working a second finger into him. "She'll want to see you like this."

Geralt groaned, clenching involuntarily around the probing fingers. He flung his hand to the side and his careless _Igni_ somehow found its mark, bringing a warm glow to the room. Iorveth positioned himself over him, the blunt head of his cock nudging at him, and reached down to close his slippery fist around Geralt's erection, his thumb rubbing at the tip in a slow, almost idle way. "Dammit, Iorveth," he hissed impatiently, trying to shove himself back, but it wasn't until Yen's footsteps up the stairs reached his ears that Iorveth finally took him by the hips, steadying him, and started pushing his way in.

The slow burn of it tore a happy groan from his throat and nearly managed to take his attention away from Yen. Nearly. He looked up and met her eyes, dark and wide with a hungry curiosity that made his cock twitch against his belly. She pulled the nearby bench closer to the bed, sat, and watched.

"I told you he loves this," Iorveth said above him minutes later, his voice strained, keeping up a quick, steady pace that lit Geralt's nerves on fire and drew noises from him he was sure Yen would tease him about. But she wasn't teasing him. She was... she was touching herself through her underclothes, he realized, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Geralt buried his face into the nearest pillow, reached down to stroke his neglected cock, and pleasure crashed over him so hard and fast he could do little but gasp, his vision greying at the edges with the intensity of it.

Iorveth let out a choked moan, the movement of his hips growing erratic, and Geralt lifted his head and managed to find his voice again. "Not yet," he panted out. "Keep going."

Yen laughed. "Witchers," she said fondly, sounding nearly as out of breath as he was. Iorveth slowed his rhythm, smoothing one hand over the small of Geralt's back. The gesture felt just as fond as Yen's comment had been, and Geralt arched into it, pushing himself up onto his elbows again.

Yen took away the pillow and slid into bed in front of him, her back against the headboard. She'd slipped out of her black lace — Geralt couldn't recall when — and spread herself open for him, skin already flushed with pleasure, smelling _delicious_. When he came for a second time, not long after, it was with his face buried between her thighs, his scalp aching from her grip on his hair and his ass smarting from the slap of Iorveth's skin against his.

He floated back down into his body when Iorveth pulled his softening cock out of him. His limbs had given out under him at some point. Yen shifted away to lie down next to them, and Geralt turned onto his back, opening one arm in invitation. Iorveth flopped down on top of him, chest heaving. Geralt tightened his hold despite the sweaty heat of him, pressing their bodies together and enjoying the last few aftershocks that skittered through his body at the contact.

"You can't be serious," Iorveth said, feeling his cock twitch. "Again?"

"Mmm, later," Geralt managed in response. He bit at Iorveth's chin, at his lip. " _En'ca minne._ "

Iorveth snorted. "Idiot," he murmured, but then kissed him gently, and not even the lingering taste of bitter cordial could ruin the lazy, contented feeling settling into Geralt's bones. He closed his hand around Yen's, twining their fingers together, and heaved a sigh.

She pulled away.

"Mmm?" he said again, turning toward her. She was frowning, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Yen?"

She shook her head. He reached for her hand again and she smacked him away, then stood and hurried down the stairs.

Iorveth rolled off him and into the empty space she'd left behind. "You've upset her. Go."

The bedroom door was already locked when Geralt made his way downstairs. The smell of uncontrolled magic was in the air — never a good sign. He knocked. "Yen?"

"Go away."

"Yen, don't make me _Aard_ the door."

It took a few more knocks, but eventually she yanked the door open, a robe tied haphazardly around her waist, face wet with tears. Geralt's stomach sank to his feet. She rounded in on him before he could ask her what he'd done. "I can't believe I fell for your nonsense. How long were you going to pretend you're just lusting after each other, Geralt?"

Geralt opened his mouth, not even sure what he wanted to say in response. She didn't let him speak. "I should've known, the way he talks about you. And you—" She laughed bitterly and dragged her sleeve across her face. " _Little love_?"

Geralt winced. It sounded so much worse in the Common Speech, somehow. "I was just— I wasn't thinking. Felt good."

"Oh, really? If this is only about you getting ploughed, Geralt, there are toys I could use."

"Uh," he said.

"No, of course it isn't. How long before you get bored of the vineyard and ride off with him?"

"I—"

"You're in love with him. At least admit it."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Her eyes flashed. That hadn't been the right response. "Get _out_. Out!" The shove she gave him had a kick of magic behind it. He stumbled back a few steps and then the door slammed shut, right into his face.

He cursed under his breath, one hand cupped over his streaming nose, and groped around in the dark for something to staunch the bleeding. The dining table yielded a scrap of discarded silvery linen. He balled it up and held it to his nose, pinching the bridge of it with his other hand, and stood there naked for a few moments, covered in blood and semen, trying to figure out how something so good had gone sideways so fast. He didn't get very far into his reflection — he wasn't cut out for this. Monsters were easier to predict.

He couldn't go back upstairs and sleep with Iorveth without getting himself into more trouble, though, that much was clear. He looked at the closed bedroom door, then trudged over to it, sat down, and closed his eyes.

***

He woke up when the door opened, sending him toppling sideways onto the bedroom floor.

"Geralt," Yen sighed somewhere above him. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Said I wasn't going anywhere," he replied, squinting up at her. She didn't look like she'd slept well. And she wasn't saying anything. He sat up. "You, uh. You can use your toys on me if you want."

"Oh, for— yes, well done, _that_ was the point of our conversation last night."

She stepped over his legs and he grabbed a handful of her skirt to stop her. "I love you. I want to live with you."

She tugged the fabric out of his grasp. "He's been wandering the North for years. What happens when he goes back on the road?"

That one was easy. Dream crystals didn't lie. "He doesn't want to."

"And he's told you that, has he? I've heard enough muttering about _dh'oine_ from him to fill the Library of Oxenfurt. From where I stand, it seems he'll be back on his idiotic warpath as soon as the tomb has been taken care of."

He didn't think that was fair — not after seeing Iorveth plating cakes for Marlene, not after hearing him cry over an old statue and wax poetic about _carrots_ when he could have dreamt of something much grander. "No, I..." It all felt too intimate to say out loud. Even Iorveth didn't know he'd gotten hold of the crystal. "He hasn't said anything."

"Right. And when he comes crying to you about nonhumans waiting to be hanged in some backwater village, you'll wave him off and go back to crushing grapes with Estienne."

"You wouldn't want me to do that," Geralt said, frowning, and was relieved to see the hard glint in Yen's eyes soften just a little. "You could... You could come with us. If that happens."

She looked down at him for a moment, then shook her head. "Then I suppose we'll have to find a way to make this work, won't we? I'll be in the cellar today. Don't bother me."

Geralt picked himself off the floor, his back unimpressed with the position he'd been in all night. "Ow. Fine. But don't lock me out again tonight."

"We'll see." She paused at the front door, looking at him over her shoulder. "Go clean yourself up before Marlene finds you like this."

Iorveth was expected at the palace. Geralt, though he was loathe to leave Yen in such a questionable mood, didn't quite trust him not to get in trouble if he went alone. And so they saddled their horses and left for the palace together, the bright morning sun making Geralt squint, each lazy step Roach took a reminder of the pounding he'd been given the previous night. He nudged her closer to Iorveth's horse until their knees were brushing together, tilted his face into the sunshine, and closed his eyes. She knew the way.

The din of the city soon reached his ears, and Iorveth pulled ahead of him to navigate the narrowing cobblestone roads. He reopened his eyes. Iorveth didn't stop to poke and prod at the walls and fountains, this time; he rode straight to the upper city and across the bridge, sitting increasingly stiffly in his saddle the closer they got to the palace.

Damien met them at the gates, along with a stablehand who took both sets of reins in hand once they'd dismounted.

"I trust you've been well," Damien offered in rather summary greeting. "Follow me."

"Where's Anarietta?" Geralt asked, more to annoy him than out of any real curiosity, as they were led through the entryway and down a lavishly-decorated hallway, the marbled floor covered in a thick Ofiri carpet and the walls hung with gilded portraits of Anna Henrietta's predecessors.

" _Her Enlightened Ladyship_ must attend to the affairs of the duchy. She sends her warmest greetings," Damien said, sounding displeased at having to pass on anyone's warm anythings to him.

They followed him down a set of long, coiling stairs, then through a maze of dimly-lit corridors where the occasional servants curtsied in greeting and pressed themselves against the stone walls to let them pass.

"This feels more like a dungeon than an elven palace," Iorveth commented.

"This wing was rebuilt after—" Damien cut himself off with an impatient shake of his head. "I'm sure Alphonse will tell you all about it." He stopped — Iorveth nearly walked into him — and pushed open a thick wooden door.

The large, torch-lit room beyond it was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. An old man was seated at a desk in the center of it, leafing through sheaves of ancient-looking parchment. He stood as they walked in. He had the posture of someone who spent a lot of time bent over books, and the complexion to match. "Ah, there you are. Thank you, Damien. It's an honor to finally meet you both."

He tottered over and introduced himself as Alphonse de-something-or-other, ducal archivist and historian. Geralt tuned out most of it, listening with only half an ear as he showed Iorveth plans of the palace drawn up by the architect Faramond and a few older elven drawings that had been left behind by the Aen Seidhe when they'd abandoned the city. Iorveth pored over the documents with the same curiosity he'd shown for the faded curlicues and ornamented fountains of the Gran' Place, his thinly-veiled disdain for Alphonse sliding off his expression as he studied them.

"You'll want to see the ballroom first," Alphonse finally declared, rolling up the documents in his bony hands. "The stained-glass windows are wonderful."

And off they went through the maze of corridors again, much slower this time. Geralt had to grant that the ballroom, when they finally reached it, _was_ pretty spectacular — the pristine white marble floor was decorated with tile mosaics in pale, delicate shades of blue and green, the sunlight filtering in from the stained glass windows painting broad colored stripes across them. The elves had shattered every window and smashed some of the mosaics in a last show of defiance on their way out, according to Alphonse, but Geralt would've been hard pressed to tell that the room had ever been damaged. Even the gilded plasterwork on the walls seemed authentic, showing peacocks and rearing deer. Faramond had done an impressive job.

Iorveth said very little. He listened in silence, nose in the air to stare at the elaborate nacre mosaic on the ceiling, and Alphonse seemed happy to have an attentive audience. Geralt guessed that the visiting dignitaries and nobles that usually passed through weren't nearly as interested in the guided tour.

They made a few other stops — a guest bedroom that held some intact elven furniture, a sitting room with some sort of religious scene painted on one wall, the figures' faces scratched off, and a small library that contained a chair carved in the shape of a peacock — before Alphonse led them underground again. "The duchy has amassed a large collection of artifacts and art found in the region. It's not generally made available to the public, but Her Illustrious Highness mentioned Master Iorveth's interest in Bearach's tomb and wished for him to see some of the highlights."

The door they stopped in front of, this time, was guarded. The heavily-armored man nodded a greeting at Alphonse and stepped aside to let him unlock the door. Geralt felt a tingle of magic when they stepped into the room. Wards against theft, he thought at first, but the magic didn't feel powerful enough. He mulled it over as Alphonse made his way slowly around the room, lighting torches on the wall as he went, but couldn't quite place the spells.

Iorveth snorted softly beside him, and Geralt followed his gaze to the enormous statue that dominated the center of the room. An elven man, very much naked, captured in a dramatic struggle with a unicorn, one hand fisted into its mane and the other holding its horn, forcing the wild-eyed animal to its knees. "That's gotta be Aen Elle," Geralt commented.

"Wouldn't know. But I've never heard of an Aen Seidhe wrestling a unicorn." Iorveth trailed after Alphonse, peering into the display cases that lined the walls. Geralt followed.

There were the expected weapons, of course, and pieces of armor taken from fallen soldiers, but also some everyday items that had been found in the palace — delicate bone combs, board games, statuettes of various deities, and even a harp taller than Geralt was, missing most of its strings but decorated beautifully with ivory and nacre. Alphonse was going on about a half-burnt tapestry depicting a deer hunt, but Iorveth seemed distracted now, his expression hardening as he looked over the war trophies and stolen items.

Geralt walked by one of the torches and stilled, sensing something odd again. He raised his hand close to the flame and found that the heat was dulled, as if the torch was far more distant than it really was. It hit him, then: spells that kept the air cool and dry in order to preserve the items. None of them had been meant to be put on display for humans to study for centuries, never mind in a stolen castle that had been deliberately left in ruins. Turning one of its rooms into a museum seemed _perverse_ , suddenly, and a shadow of Iorveth's anger prickled at him.

"Of course, this is only part of Her Highness's collection — there are more items in storage, and yet more on loan to universities across the—"

"Anything from Bearach's tomb?" Iorveth cut in.

"Er, yes. His sword is there, I believe." Alphonse pointed at a case across the room, and Iorveth immediately walked over to it. Geralt followed and peered over his shoulder. The sword wasn't as ornate as he'd been expecting; the sculptor who'd made his statue had taken some artistic liberties, lengthening the blade and adding gems and runes to the hilt. The real thing only bore a single decorative element: a bee caught in amber embedded in the pommel, glowing gold in the torchlight.

"He was a beekeeper before humans came to Toussaint," Alphonse said in explanation. "The walls of his tomb mention—"

"I'm aware." Iorveth straightened. "Open the case. I'm taking this back to him."

"Back to... B-but this is part of Her Highness's collection. It would be such a waste to—"

"It would be a _waste_ to let the sword rot in the hands of dh'oine usurpers. Open this before I break it." Iorveth smacked his palm firmly against the glass to demonstrate, and the sword rattled on its stand. "And if there are any other items here that were found in Bearach's tomb, I want them brought to me."

Alphonse stood with his mouth agape and his hands worrying at the hem of his tunic. "But I— please understand, sir, I don't have the authority to relinquish Her Highness's—"

Geralt decided to step in before Iorveth said something even the duchess's special guest couldn't get away with. "Go ask her, then. Or did she really not mention that Iorveth might need some of these? She told you what he's working on."

"Well, I. Yes, Her Highness did mention..." He glanced down at the sword, his mouth twisting unhappily, but nodded. "Very well. I will need some time to go over the records."

***

Alphonse met them nearly two hours later in the sitting room they'd been left in to wait (with a tray of petits fours and glasses of wine, at least). He was carrying the sword and a few more objects Geralt couldn't identify, all carefully wrapped for transport. "This is everything. There was a brooch, too, and a cloak, and—"

Iorveth stood. "Good. Send the duchess my thanks."

Geralt took the bundles from Alphonse, whose eyes flicked between him and Iorveth before he apparently decided to try appealing to him. "Master witcher, should there be a way to return these to the collection once the curse has been lifted..."

Geralt shrugged and looked to Iorveth, who sniffed in distaste and popped another petit four into his mouth. "I'll make sure to ask Bearach what he thinks," he said thickly. "Show us to the nearest exit, will you? I fear I'll be put into a glass case if I linger here any longer."

Despite the barbed reply, the acquisition of Bearach's belongings and the liberal application of petits fours had improved Iorveth's mood considerably; he was whistling a cheerful tune by the time they reached Corvo Bianco. He turned his mare away from the entrance to the estate, though, and nodded toward his saddlebags. "Bearach will want these back," he said.

"Need help?"

"No. Check on Yennefer." He rode away, his tuneless whistling rising in the air again, and Geralt sighed and led Roach to the stables.

He went down to the cellar and found Yennefer standing at the table he used to brew his potions, her back to him. He could still feel her magic, though it was much more controlled this time. He stepped up to her, putting his hands on her hips, and looked over her shoulder curiously.

"I told you not to bother me," she muttered, sounding too distracted to be angry. He chose to consider that an improvement. Three bottles of White Wolf stood on the table, surrounded by elaborate patterns drawn with salt. The air shimmered like a heat haze around them.

"Sorry."

Yen put one hand over his, and he had just enough time to feel hopeful before she pulled his hand over to one of the bottles. His fingertips bumped against an invisible ward and blue sparks flew into the air. Yen picked up a quill with her free hand and scribbled something down onto a piece of parchment.

"What—"

"Shush." She moved his hand to the next bottle, and it felt like the sparks had flown _into_ him this time, sending a small bolt of pain all the way up to his shoulder.

" _Ow_ ," he said, frowning.

"Hmm." There was the scratch of her quill again. "Then the third version will be too powerful, even for a witcher." She paused, still holding Geralt's hand in the air, then lowered it back to her hip. "I suppose I'll spare your fingers."

That had felt like permission to keep touching her. Geralt slid his arms around her, drawing her a little closer, and nuzzled the side of her neck. "Thank you."

She sighed. "Stop sounding so contrite. You haven't done anything wrong."

"Made you upset," Geralt countered.

"I should've seen it coming."

"Seen what coming?" he asked, then squeezed her lightly. "Yen, read my mind."

"I've been afraid to, lately." Her voice had been uncharacteristically quiet. _I love you_ , Geralt thought as hard as he could, nosing her hair aside to kiss her neck, and after a moment she tilted her head to the side, giving him more room, and sighed again. "I know."

He could hear a slight smile in her voice, now, and it was such a relief that he sagged against her. "Not like you've let me _show_ you, lately," he said, letting a hint of reproach color his tone.

"Yes, I know. It seemed funny at the time." She turned in his arms and craned her neck, a silent request for a kiss that Geralt was more than happy to accommodate. "I've missed having you to myself," she murmured against his mouth.

"You can have me anytime you want." He kissed her again, basking in the familiar rhythm of her heartbeat, in the familiar heat that was starting to rise from her skin. "Now would be good," he added as an afterthought, one hand already up her shirt and halfway to her breast.

She grinned. "It would, wouldn't it?" She batted his hand away, but only so that she could lift herself up onto the edge of the table, hooking one leg around his as she swept her notes and quill to the floor.

The third wine bottle tipped over, later, and left him with an angry scorch mark that branched out like a lightning bolt from his wrist to the inside of his elbow. He didn't care one bit.

They made their way back to the house hand-in-hand, Yen wearing his shirt and carrying the singed remnants of her clothes under her arm (further victims of the wayward bottle). Iorveth and Barnabas-Basil were sitting with their heads bent together over a notebook. Iorveth looked up and smirked at them, but Barnabas-Basil took one look at the half-dressed, messy-haired state Yen was in and averted his eyes, pocketing the notebook as he rose from his chair.

"Something smells burnt," Iorveth remarked. "I take it the warding spells didn't go well?"

Yen tsked. "So little faith. I've worked it out."

"Then we're ready. Tomorrow," he added, looking up at Barnabas-Basil, who nodded and patted his pocket.

"I'll arrange the deliveries."

Yen intercepted him on his way out the door and held her clothing out to him. "Would you please see whether your wife can save any of these? I was rather fond of the skirt."

"Yes, of course," he replied, eyes on the ceiling as he grabbed for the loose bundle. He made a hasty exit before she could even thank him, and she watched him go with an amused shake of her head.

"You'd think he'd be less uptight after living with you for so long." Iorveth rose from his seat and stretched his arms over his head, making his spine pop.

"He's not so bad when you get some wine into him. Loosens him up." He eyed Iorveth, lingering on the strip of skin and inked tree trunk visible below the hem of his shirt, then glanced over to Yen.

"Little chance of that with Ciri around. I think he's been wearing his ridiculous ruff to bed in case she shows up unannounced." She noticed him looking at her, and something in his expression made her huff impatiently. "Lebioda's bollocks, Geralt, don't look at me like that every time you want to put your hands on him. I am quite aware what goes on in that head of yours." She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "I'd like you to sleep with me tonight. Until then, do as you wish. I'm not going to break."

He swallowed, then nodded. Simple instructions. He could work with those.

***

Morning dawned over Bearach's tomb. The first rays of sunlight caught on his beryl eyes and gave them a lifelike glint, as if he were watching the unusual crowd assembled in front of him. Barnabas-Basil had led a mule-drawn carriage to the clearing, laden with wildflowers, foraged food, and an assortment of jars and bottles, and though he'd left after wishing them luck, the carriage and its sleepy mule remained. Yen was walking in circles around the stone structure, muttering to herself and pouring careful lines of salt on the ground. She'd written to Ciri and Dandelion, who had shown up out of curiosity and were sitting in the grass to watch the proceedings, and Iorveth stood at the center of it all, reviewing his scribbled notes and stopping to speak with Yen between trips from the cart to the tomb, his arms laden with offerings.

Geralt knew from the past several weeks that he wouldn't be allowed to touch anything, and so he sat well away from the salt circles, waiting.

"Let me help," Ciri called out, standing up and brushing dirt from her trousers. "I have elven blood. I doubt the spirits will object."

Iorveth stopped at the entrance to the tomb, breathing hard, and eyed Ciri for a moment before giving her a reluctant nod. She grabbed an armload of sweetgrass and disappeared into the dark passage. Dandelion made to follow. " _No_ ," Iorveth said firmly, as if speaking to an ill-behaved dog, and the bard sat back down.

Geralt made a mental note to try that one. He plucked a blade of grass from the ground and stuck one end into his mouth, watching as the three worked around each other. It felt... right, having all of them here with him. His little family, doing witcher's work in the Toussaintois countryside. He knew it couldn't possibly last.

Once the cart was empty, Iorveth stood staring at the tomb for a moment, then nodded to Yen. She pocketed the chalk she'd been using to draw runes on the stone walls, stepped back, and started incanting. Geralt rarely had the occasion to really _watch_ her as she worked on something this big; more often than not, he was busy fighting or fleeing when Yen used her magic. Her face was screwed up in concentration, her brow furrowed as if she were channeling the anger of Bearach and all of his men. The smell of ozone rose around them. Yen sliced her palm open with a small dagger, and the barrier slammed into place as soon as the first drop of her blood hit the ground; there was a gust of wind that tousled Geralt's hair and stole the blade of grass from his mouth, then silence.

Even without his rattling medallion to help him, Geralt could feel the barrier from where he was sitting. It shimmered like a heat haze over the gemstones inlaid in Bearach's statue, around the delicate stonework on the walls and over the dark, open passage that led underground. He nearly felt sorry for the next tomb robber to try his luck against the snarl of vengeful wards Yen had conjured up.

She wasn't done, though; she said something in a language Geralt didn't know, waved her bloody hand, and the strange shimmer faded, then vanished from view, rendering the wards invisible.

"You look proud," Ciri said gently, bumping her shoulder into his, and Geralt realized he was grinning.

He shrugged. "They did well."

Iorveth was tying a bandage around Yen's hand. He led her to them and pointed her to the empty carriage. "It's done."

"Did it work?" Dandelion asked. "The wards did, obviously, but are the spirits still angry?"

"I don't know." Iorveth glanced back at the statue of Bearach, who stared blindly ahead with his gemstone eyes. "And I'm not about to go back down and check. They've seen enough of the living." And Iorveth had seen enough of the spirits, Geralt suspected. "Time will tell."

The sun was out in full force by the time they finished packing up their belongings, loading the half-full bucket of salt, cleaning supplies and other odds and ends onto the cart. Dandelion kept wiping his brow with a handkerchief despite the minimal help he was providing, and birds were starting to tweet in the nearby trees. Time would tell, yes, but Geralt had little doubt that the spirits had been quieted. He eyed Yen, who still stood leaning against the cart, cradling her bandaged hand, and raised one eyebrow at her.

"I am perfectly fine," she said irritatedly.

Geralt carried her home.

***

Two days later, at Yennefer's instruction, he and Iorveth set off to for the clearing again to scrub her chalk runes off the walls. She'd said the wards would have "settled" by now, whatever that meant. They found the tomb just as they'd left it, the air around it no longer affected by the spirits' icy anger. Something lay at the feet of Bearach's statue, though, and Iorveth sighed loudly when they got close enough to see. A few bouquets of wildflowers, a small wreath made of braided grass, a candle that had long gone out, and a bushel of turnips — the farmers' attempts at preventing another cold snap, it seemed, or perhaps a gesture of thanks.

"Bloede dh'oine," Iorveth muttered. He piled the flowers and wreath on top of the turnips and carried the bushel to the very edge of the clearing, then dumped it unceremoniously into the undergrowth.

"This would be over quicker if you let me help," Geralt said much later, lying in the grass and watching as Iorveth scrubbed at one of the stone walls with a hard-bristled brush. He'd made quick work of the chalk, but had gotten carried away and seemingly decided to scrub off the worst of the centuries' worth of moss and grime that still covered the outside of the tomb.

"Shame you're not an elf, then," Iorveth replied, rising on tiptoe to scrub higher, sudsy water dripping down his arm. He was sweating in the sunshine and had taken off his shirt, the lean muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing as he worked. Geralt didn't exactly mind not helping him.

"Is everything all right?" Yen called out to him across the clearing, later still. Geralt shrugged and gestured toward Iorveth. He'd climbed up Bearach and was hanging on precariously with his legs wrapped around the statue's torso, scrubbing at the grooves in its armor. She tsked and crossed the clearing to join Geralt. "You were gone for so long I thought there might be something wrong with the wards."

"Course not." He brushed his hand through the grass next to him, checking for rocks, then patted the ground. She eyed him skeptically, but sat down anyway.

"His wound is healing well," she commented after a moment. "There won't be a scar."

He looked at Iorveth's side. The wound was only a thin, pink line now, barely visible at this distance. "Mm. Thank you," he said, taking her hand and pulling it over to press a kiss to the back of it. Iorveth hopped down from the statue and splashed some clean water onto his face. Drops of it trickled down his smooth torso, over the inked tree roots on his hip and into his trousers, and Yen laughed softly.

"I would've expected you to have better taste in men, Geralt."

"Hmm?" He glanced up at her. "Could've sworn you called him handsome, first time you saw him."

"He's not _completely_ off-putting. I prefer my men a little sturdier, though. And hairier. And less murderous."

Geralt frowned. She didn't sound upset, but he'd misjudged her reactions before. He still felt on shaky ground. "If... if you really mind..."

"Geralt. I'm only joking." She squeezed his hand. "I think you might be right, in any case. He's tired of killing."

"You can read his mind too," he said, frowning again, suddenly wondering why that hadn't occurred to him before.

"Yes, of course."

"And?"

She watched Iorveth for a moment before answering, an inscrutable look on her face. "And... he thinks more highly of you than you know. He likes that you've mastered his language. He likes hearing it come out of your mouth. In fact, he's very fond of your mouth in general. And of your tongue." She looked down at him. "Quite relatable."

Geralt snorted. That was hardly what he'd been asking about, and hardly an earth-shattering revelation, but he didn't press her further. She could keep her secrets. She was joking about Iorveth again — that felt like enough of a victory.

***

Iorveth wandered the edges of Corvo Bianco like a restless ghost the following day, never quite settling in one spot, and Geralt realized this was probably the first time in years he'd found himself with time to spare, no one after him, and no starving Scoia'tael or angry spirits depending on him.

He settled into the peace of the estate tentatively at first, sitting in the sun with the idiot peacock by his side and his eyes on the horizon, or shuffling around the kitchen with his musty recipe book, or slipping into the stables to steal kisses from Geralt's mouth and help him groom the horses. The hunted, exhausted look that had lingered about him faded away, and he recovered the last of his strength through hunting trips and sparring matches with him and Ciri.

A few days passed like this. Geralt spent as much time as possible with Ciri and split his nights between Yen and Iorveth. Eventually, he stopped wondering when his visitors would leave; he'd decided he didn't want to know.

***

Geralt sank deeper into the steaming tub. He'd already scrubbed off the dirt from the road but felt unwilling to move just yet; having clean, scalding water brought to him on demand was a novelty that hadn't yet worn off, even after a couple of years at Corvo Bianco.

The bedroom door opened and Geralt didn't bother looking. "Yen?"

"No. B.B. said you'd already asked for a bath. Can we share?"

Geralt caught a familiar iron tang in the air and raised his head, frowning. Iorveth had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands and forearms covered in half-dried blood. He seemed unconcerned by it, already working on unfastening his trousers, and Geralt relaxed again after taking a deeper whiff of it: deer blood. "Mm, get in."

It took a bit of maneuvering — Iorveth was slighter, but nearly of a height with him. He folded himself into the tub and settled himself between Geralt's legs, sending some soapy water sloshing over the edge when he leaned back against his chest. Geralt picked up a brush and lifted one of Iorveth's hands out of the water, washing off the blood and scrubbing at his fingernails.

"Must the water be so hot?" Iorveth mumbled once both his hands were clean. His forehead felt damp against Geralt's neck, and a flush was creeping up his chest. "It's summer."

"Like it that way. Yen complains about it too, you should share with her next time." 

He huffed out a laugh against his collarbone. "Yes, I'm sure you'd enjoy the sight." He took Geralt's hand and pulled it underwater, guiding it to his chest, and Geralt touched him with broad, lazy strokes of his palm, listening to the way his breathing deepened. "This reminds me of Vergen."

"Better than Vergen." He wasn't embroiled in the convoluted machinations of kings and sorceresses, for one. And Yen was living with him. And Iorveth looked _content_. "The bathwater was lukewarm." He raked his fingernails down Iorveth's abdomen, gently, and his jest passed without comment. Iorveth pressed an eager, open-mouthed kiss to his throat, instead, as Geralt closed his hand around his half-hard cock.

"Are you both in here?" Yen asked even as she poked her head into the room. "Oh, my. So you are."

Geralt smiled at the way her eyes lingered on the slow movement of his hand under the water. "Come in."

"I hate to interrupt." She walked in, closing the door behind herself, and held up a folded piece of thick, cream-colored parchment, its green wax seal already broken. It looked expensive. "But I think you'll want to hear this."

Iorveth had laid one hand on his knee and was shifting impatiently against him, providing distracting friction — it took Geralt a moment to respond. "Contract?"

"No, an invitation from Anna Henrietta. For all three of us."

That stilled Iorveth's hips. "I've seen enough of her palace," he said, a little breathless.

"I doubt we can weasel out of this one — no pun intended." She unfolded the invitation and started reading from it. "We are 'cordially invited to join Her Enlightened Ladyship in a masked celebration of Toussaint's rich elven culture and history'. This clearly has to do with your work on the tomb, Iorveth."

"A masked ball?" Geralt asked. Iorveth grunted disgustedly into his neck.

"Elven garb recommended," Yen continued. "In three days' time, too, which leaves us little time to prepare. I'll find you both a tailor."

"Surely any clothing I own should be considered elven garb," Iorveth grumbled.

"Do you mean the patched-up armor, or Geralt's frayed hand-me-downs?" She stepped closer to the tub, dipped one hand into the water, and Iorveth jerked against him — she'd flicked his nipple, judging by his startled reaction. "Don't argue with me. I've stuffed Geralt into plenty of doublets, and I dare say he's many times stronger than you are."

"Leave me be, woman," Iorveth protested, but he was grinning when Geralt looked down at him. "I've stuffing of my own to do, and none of it involves doublets. You'll soften his prick with all of this palace talk."

"Yes, yes, I'll leave you to it. For now." She placed the invitation onto the nearby bookshelf, then bent to drop a kiss on Geralt's lips and a light pat to Iorveth's arm. "Don't exhaust him completely."

"I doubt that's possible."

Geralt watched her leave the room, part of him surprised by the easy warmth with which they spoke to each other. But perhaps it shouldn't have surprised him; after all, they'd worked on the tomb together, hunted down bandits, and had clearly discussed Geralt himself in _thorough_ detail over the past few weeks.

Seeing them like this made it easy to believe that it could go on forever, though, that Yen making room for Iorveth in their life would somehow move him to abandon his Scoia'tael for good. Something in his ribcage fluttered at the thought, but Iorveth took hold of his wrist and coaxed him into resuming the slow, teasing strokes of his hand before he could examine it any further.

***

"Emhyr never lets me do this," Ciri said happily, damp hair falling into her face, blade at the ready. Geralt lunged forward and she parried his blow effortlessly. She was rusty, or so she'd said, but so was he — months spent eating bread and cheese and lounging around a vineyard hadn't exactly kept his reflexes sharp.

" _Lets_ you?" he repeated between blows. "He shouldn't order you around."

"Well, he _is_ still the Emperor."

 _The Emperor_ , not _my father_ , he noted with a fierce, petty sort of satisfaction. Her blade glanced off the chainmail on his arm and she took a quick step back, shifting her weight from foot to foot, eyes calculating even as she spoke on.

"I have been sneaking off to spar with Morvran, but it's not the same."

She came at him again. Geralt raised his sword and their blades clashed together, and for a moment she was thrown off-balance. He seized his chance and shoved, but the air changed around him, whooshing as it filled the suddenly empty space where Ciri had been, and he went stumbling forward into the grass.

"Can't believe I fell for that one," he told the cloudless blue sky, sprawled on his back after ducking into a clumsy roll that hadn't done much to salvage his dignity.

There was another gust of air and a crackle of magic. Ciri's toothy grin filled his field of vision. "It _has_ been a while." She plopped down next to him, panting, and mopped her forehead on her sleeve. "What sorts of monsters are even here for a witcher to hunt? Vampires aside, of course. This seems too idyllic a place for drowners and alghouls."

"You'd be surprised. Archespores and centipedes in the vineyards, kikimores in the forests. More interesting critters here and there. There's a silver basilisk north of here."

"A silver basilisk? Hasn't anyone offered a reward for it?"

"Yes. But I let her live. She's probably the last one on the continent. Her name's Iocaste. She doesn't go after people... much."

Ciri shook her head, smiling down at him. "Emhyr did say you've always had a soft spot for sad monsters. Sad monsters and the downtrodden."

"Emhyr said that, huh?"

"Mmhm. And Yennefer agrees."

"Yeah, well." He stroked his wolf medallion thoughtfully. "Guess I can't really argue with that. Marlene used to be a spotted wight. My cook."

"Yes, Yennefer mentioned that. But by sad monster, I believe she meant your other lover."

He raised himself up on one elbow, blinking. "What? He's not my—" He paused. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She laughed at him. "Are you trying not to offend my delicate sensibilities? I'm no longer a little girl, Geralt, and I do have eyes in my head. Besides, Nilfgaardian nobility sometimes take lovers of the same sex. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Clearly there was no use trying to hide it from her. "Fine."

"Or done before."

Her eyes were still full of laughter. He flopped back down. "Please, spare me the details," he said, then looked at her suspiciously. "Why would Emhyr talk to you about this? And Yen?"

"You've turned a spotted wight into a cook and a Scoia'tael commando leader into a house pet. Perhaps she's worried you'll bring home the basilisk next."

"Ciri."

She broke into a grin. "Sorry. But you do realize this is rather funny."

"So glad you're taking it well," he grouched.

"Well, I already have two fathers. What's one more in the grand scheme of things?"

" _Ciri!_ " He rubbed a hand over his face. "It's not like that. He won't be here forever."

"Mm, I don't know about that. He certainly seems to like this place." She pulled his hand off his face and gave it a squeeze, and when he looked up at her, her expression was serious again. "She knows how much he means to you. You don't need to be so defensive about it."

"I'm not defensive about it."

"No, not at all," she retorted, laughter creeping back into her voice. She dropped his hand and the topic, though, which suited Geralt just fine. "So where are those centipedes you were talking about? I've never fought one before."

They rose, brushing themselves off. "They pop up around the vineyards pretty often this time of year. Check with Barnabas-Basil, I bet he's got a contract lying around." The locals had started sending contracts directly to his doorstep long ago. It felt a little backwards, but better than wandering from notice board to notice board waiting for something interesting to turn up, he supposed. "Can't go with you today, though."

"What— oh. Clothes for tomorrow, yes?"

"Mmhm. Iorveth doesn't have much. And Yen said she'd pretend not to know me if I turn up in my old doublet. It's 'out of style', apparently."

"The black one? Definitely out of style."

***

"I'll wait outside," Geralt announced, already nauseated by the thick aroma of flowers that decorated the pathway to the entrance of the palace. A woman brushed past him in a shimmering, violently green dress, and he only narrowly avoided stepping onto the long, leaf-embroidered train that trailed behind her. There were leaves in her _hair_ , too. This was going to be awful.

Yen's hand tightened on his arm warningly. "You'll do no such thing."

"Idiots, all of them," Iorveth hissed at his other side, glaring from behind his gilded half-mask. Geralt followed his gaze to Monsieur and Madame de Bourbeau, who'd obviously spent a great deal of money on the extravagant outfits they were wearing. He was fairly sure they were aiming for an “elven harvest gods” sort of look; those looked like real fruits on her headpiece. And he'd thought the heavy stag mask Yen had talked him into was bad. He took a deep, uncomfortable breath from the confines of his new doublet (dark blue, flower-embroidered, _stupid_ ) and kept walking.

The inside of the palace was just as bad as the outside. Elaborate leaf and flower garlands had been affixed to every wall, and one of the statues from the duchy's collection, the one depicting a nude elven warrior fighting a unicorn, had been moved to the center of the ballroom, ringed by yet more flower arrangements. Geralt stopped by a table covered in hors-d'oeuvres and selected a colorful, meaty-looking thing. It was wrapped in a leaf, of course.

"They're certainly committed to the theme," Yen commented.

"Is there a theme? Hadn't noticed." He popped the small morsel into his mouth. 

"Elves, as imagined by people who haven't cohabited with them in centuries." The corners of her mouth twitched upwards. "The statue is rather nice, though."

"Authentic, too. Maybe Iorveth can reclaim it for you." Geralt turned his head and realized they'd lost him. He was several paces away, standing stiffly by a marble column, and had acquired a goblet of red wine and a few admirers. Even with the mask on, his scar and pointed ears were easily visible; probably the only full-blooded elf in the entire palace, and with an intriguing, roguish look about him to boot. He'd have people lining up to make small talk with him all night.

"Why reclaim it when we can recreate it? We have both a unicorn and a naked elf at our disposal."

Geralt's imagination threated to run off in some interesting directions at that remark, but he was distracted by a gloved hand on his arm. "This is a much better color for you," Ciri said, eyes smiling up at him behind her silver mask. She was in a ridiculous gown, too, but at least the thick, embroidered crimson sash around her waist had something of the Aen Seidhe to it.

"Oh, you look beautiful," Yen exclaimed, embracing her briefly. "I didn't hear your name being announced."

"I asked for it not to be, though I'm sure a few of the guests will recognize me. Can't have a ball in Toussaint without a bit of intrigue."

A man wearing a full mask came up behind her, clad in green silk. Geralt spotted the lute neck sticking out from behind his back and groaned. "Dandelion, _no_."

"You must be mistaken, my friend. I am the wandering bard Siocare," Dandelion replied, sounding exactly like himself. He leaned in close and dropped his voice to a loud whisper. "She'll see reason if I speak to her privately, I'm sure of it."

Geralt could all too easily imagine where that would lead: a jail cell.

"I've already told him I wouldn't be able to interfere if he gets arrested," Ciri said with a resigned shrug, echoing his thoughts.

"Not going to rescue you either, _chicory_. You're on your own."

Dandelion scoffed. "When have I ever relied on you for such a thing, Geralt?"

Several of his past misadventures immediately came to mind, but before Geralt could choose one to remind him of, Dandelion sauntered off to another food-laden table and struck up a conversation with Madame de Bourbeau, standing closer to her than was strictly appropriate.

"Speaking of rescue," Yen said, nudging him. "If Iorveth stares at you any harder, he'll wear a hole into your mask."

Geralt looked over and saw that a man had managed to pull him into a private conversation. Something about him was familiar — the bald head, the plain ceremonial mask covering his face, the elven sword at his belt... Durand. The history fanatic who'd managed to awaken some of King Divethaf's golems on his estate. He tuned out the chatter filling the room and focused on Durand's voice, high with excitement, asking questions about Bearach's tomb in stuttering Elder Speech. Iorveth seemed equal parts confused and irritated. Geralt recalled the feeling very well from his own conversations with the man.

He joined them just in time to catch the tail end of Durand's invitation to the Doren Alma Estate. "... talk alone, you and me, in my wine place. I am a, a, how do you say," he said haltingly, then switched to Common. "A wonderful bottle of wine from Lower Alba, made using traditional elven methods, that's been languishing in wait of a worthy guest."

" _Tha esseath, me bleidd_." Iorveth greeted Geralt with a touch to the small of his back. Durand took a half-step back, the eager grin glinting from under his mask freezing into a panicked grimace. The nickname had been simple enough for even him to understand. Iorveth didn't stop there, though. "If this is an attempt at bedding an elf to slake your boorish curiosity, dh'oine, you'll have to do better than to boast about Dhu Seidhe wine to an Aen Seidhe." He continued to speak over Durand's sheepish stammering. "And you'd do well to stop butchering our language. Geralt here is a much more patient man than I am, perhaps he'll teach you how to offer a proper apology."

He excused himself with a short nod to Geralt, leaving Durand looking much like a kicked puppy. "I, er, master witcher, I wasn't aware—"

"Yeah, yeah. Could've gone worse, believe me. If you've got questions about the tomb, just ask—" _Ask Yennefer_ , he'd been about to say, but couldn't bring himself to unleash the full brunt of the fool's enthusiasm onto her. She'd likely be even more liberal with her hexes than Iorveth had been with his words. "Ask me," he finished, sighing. "I was there for most of it."

"Truly? Did you see the inside of the tomb?"

Geralt leaned back against the nearest column and braced himself for the flurry of questions. He shared as much as he thought Iorveth wouldn't object to, watching the revelry from their relatively quiet corner. Musicians had started playing some airy, delicate music, plucking away at their lutes and harps as a singer droned on about the beauty of trees in disjointed Elder Speech that made Durand sound like the second coming of Divethaf. This was what passed for elven music in Toussaint, apparently.

He suddenly missed having Ciri by his side, free to drink expensive wine with him and make fun of the mediocre performance. She was flowing about the edges of the ballroom with an easy grace that belied her Kaer Morhen years, lingering here and there to speak with some of the most influential guests. Seeing how much of Nilfgaard had been hammered into her made his heart ache as much as it made him proud. His eyes sought out Yen in the crowd, instead, and found her dancing with Iorveth, his expression thunderous. More of his admirers were waiting hopefully in the sidelines. He couldn't decide which one of them looked more beautiful and found himself wishing Count Beladal was in attendance to capture their image in his strange device.

"And did the ghost wear his hair in braids? Hairstyles have been the focus of countless debates among the Society of Friends of the History of Toussaint, you see, and I'm of the personal opinion..."

The duchess made an appearance, at long last, and Durand fell mercifully silent during her announcement: this was to be a night of celebration for the restoration of nearby ruins by an "esteemed elven guest", the start of a new era in which Toussaint's illustrious elven history would be studied anew, the birth of a friendship between two peoples driven to enmity by needless wars, etcetera etcetera. Geralt wasn't surprised when, after she'd made her rounds through the room and disappeared again, a servant walked up to Iorveth and murmured something to him, indicating a nearby door.

Geralt approached as the servant slipped away into the crowd. Iorveth looked at him, eyes narrowed behind his mask. "The duchess wants to meet me privately."

"Not surprising. Ball's pretty much in your honor, isn't it? Maybe she wants to reward you."

"A bauble from her collection, like Yennefer said." Iorveth shook his head. "I don't want anything from her."

"Or maybe we're overthinking it. Maybe she just wants to get you alone, like everyone else here."

"Very funny, Gwynbleidd."

"What happened to _me bleidd_?"

Iorveth's sour expression melted into a half-smile, for the first time that night. He glanced at the door the servant had pointed him to, then back at him. "Come with me. I can no longer trust myself not to burn this entire palace to the ground."

Geralt could sympathize — the music alone was bad enough to make Bearach roll over in his tomb. Exactly the sort of thing the previous inhabitants of the palace must have been trying to prevent by destroying it before they'd fled. He nodded his assent and followed Iorveth through the doorway and to a quiet corridor. A guard there led the way to a small sitting room, where the duchess already sat waiting at a dark wooden table, her peacock feather mask resting on its polished surface.

If she was surprised to see Geralt, she didn't show it. "Good evening. Please have a seat."

Iorveth removed his own mask and tossed it carelessly onto the table, then sat across from her. Two servants brought a carafe of wine, fresh goblets, and a tray covered with fingers foods. They filled the goblets and bowed out of the room.

"Sit with us," Anna Henrietta offered. Geralt walked over and perched himself on the edge of the table next to Iorveth, half-facing her. She looked at him as she would an unruly child, but pushed the tray of food closer to him before turning her attention to Iorveth. "I hope you are enjoying the evening."

Iorveth inclined his head in a way that didn't mean a whole lot. More diplomatic than he usually was, though. "Thank you for the invitation. Clearly you have something to discuss."

"Your success in restoring the elven tomb near Corvo Bianco. Alphonse visited yesterday and was very impressed by the results." She raised a hand placatingly. "He did not attempt to breach the magical barriers at the entrance. Yennefer's work, I presume?"

"Yes. She has exceptional talent."

"Our enchanter expressed a similar sentiment."

Iorveth narrowed his eye. "Just how many of your servants did you send trampling around the tomb?"

"Enough to confirm that the spirits had been quieted and the outer structure restored. But many more will want to go, Iorveth. There are no other places like it in Toussaint." She brought her goblet to her lips briefly. "We would like to make it into a public garden of sorts, perhaps with a plaque to commemorate the elven soldiers who fell defending Nilfgaard."

The pigeon and mushroom morsel Geralt had been chewing nearly went down the wrong pipe. Iorveth reacted about as well as could be expected — an angry flush came over him, no doubt accentuated by the wine he'd been drinking, and his hand clenched on the arm of his chair. "The soldiers who fell defending _Nilfgaard_?" he spat. "How typical of dh'oine to care only for the non-humans who aided them. The elves who lie in that tomb died defending their kingdom from _you_ , duchess. Put that plaque up and the spirits will have risen again before I can even pry it off."

"Yeah, I'd skip the plaque," Geralt offered, picking up a few cubes of cheese.

"Very well, no plaque," she said impatiently. "But there will be visitors nonetheless. A few benches, a clean path around the tomb—"

"Why are you asking for my opinion? It's your land. Despite the best efforts of the elves who lived here before you."

"You insist on seeing me as your enemy, Iorveth, yet I have done nothing but help you. I would know your thoughts on the clearing."

He pressed his lips together stubbornly, glaring, but his eye fell to the table after a few silent seconds. He tapped his fingertips against the arm of the chair, then spoke. "Benches of carved stone, and if there is to be a plaque, let it be about Bearach. And none of this nonsense," he gestured toward the closed door, encompassing with a wave of his arm the lavishly decorated ballroom and gardens beyond it. "Blackberry bushes for the deer. _Gille-gorm y gealach-lus_."

"Cornflowers and..." Anna Henrietta trailed off.

"Moonwort," Geralt finished for her, Iorveth's words stirring faint memories of Kaer Morhen's crumbling alchemy tomes, then drained the last of his wine. Iorveth glanced up at him with something like fondness and switched his full goblet with Geralt's empty one.

"Very well. We've already drafted a contract to formalize this arrangement." She looked to the corner of the room, where a servant stood waiting. He stepped forward and unrolled the contract onto the table between them. It was written neatly in the Elder Speech, with no trace of Nilfgaardian or Common anywhere on it — a nice touch, Geralt thought — and gave Iorveth access to a nice amount of florens and a crew of workers to do as he wished with the land surrounding the tomb.

Iorveth frowned as he pored over the contract. He was silent for a moment, then finally said, "Elves should do this work." His voice had lost its petulant edge, though, and Geralt could tell he was considering the offer.

"Then you are more than welcome to choose your own men and bring them to Toussaint. They will prove useful for more than this project, in any case; if you're to keep restoring ruins, we will require skilled craftsmen to create reproductions of the items in our collection before you return them to their original locations."

Geralt blinked at the implication: steady restoration work sponsored by the duchy, with very few restrictions, judging by the contract that lay between them. Iorveth asked before he could. "Why are you doing this?"

Anna Henrietta considered Iorveth for a moment, then spoke. "I will not condescend to you by pretending that I merely wish to right past wrongs. Toussaint has suffered greatly from last year's attack. Your work will attract visitors, scholars — perhaps even elves who will wish to settle here." Her voice rose slightly at the end of her sentence, turning it into a half-question.

Iorveth snorted. "It will take more than a handful of florens and the promise of a few weeks' work to bring elves to this place."

Geralt had tuned out the muted sound of the music coming in from the ballroom, but Dandelion's voice jolted his attention away from the conversation instantly. He was singing, the idiot — one of the elven songs he'd learned from Iorveth, from the sound of it. The buzz of conversation on the other side of the heavy doors had died down.

"Years?" Iorveth said. "You have other sites in mind, then."

"Alphonse made a few suggestions." She held out a hand and the servant stepped forward again. This time it was a map of Toussaint he smoothed out in front of Iorveth, several locations circled and annotated in an elegant hand. One of the servant girls slinked in with a tray of delicate-looking sweets, and Geralt saw the minute change in Anna Henrietta's face when Dandelion's voice filtered into the room. A flush rose to her cheeks and her fingertips whitened tellingly around her goblet, but her voice remained low and controlled as she discussed the ruins with Iorveth for several more minutes.

"I will consider it," Iorveth said, eye on the map. He made a move toward it, but Anna Henrietta gestured instead for her servant to roll it up, along with the contract.

"It would not do to burden you with these on such a fine evening. We will have them delivered to Corvo Bianco in the morning. Please enjoy yourself for now; the night is still young," she said, glancing in the direction of the ballroom. She excused herself, walked stiffly from the room with murder in her eyes, and Geralt looked down at Iorveth.

"We should find Yen. She'll want to watch Dandelion get arrested."

***

Geralt woke up in excellent spirits. He'd made enough of a dent in the ducal wine reserves to get a nice buzz going, he'd watched Anna Henrietta punch Dandelion rather spectacularly before pulling him out of the ballroom by a fistful of his hair, Iorveth had retired to the upstairs bedroom with a quiet pensiveness that had left him optimistic about the contract, and Yen had whispered increasingly filthy things into his ear on the way home, then pulled him over to the unicorn and demonstrated most of them.

A nearly perfect night, provided Dandelion wasn't in jail. Geralt had only eavesdropped enough to make sure he wasn't _dead_ before leaving the ball. He'd scrape up the motivation to check on him eventually; sweating it out in Beauclair for a few more hours might just teach him a lesson in the meantime.

It was with that cheerful thought that he emerged from his bedroom to find Iorveth seated at the dining table, shoveling porridge into his mouth with the contract rolled out next to him, no doubt freshly delivered from the palace. Geralt sat across from him and pulled the length of vellum closer, checking whether he'd already signed it. He hadn't.

Marlene came into the room with a motherly smile and another steaming bowl, which she placed by his elbow. The porridge was bland, sweetened only lightly with honey — she must have had potential hangovers in mind when putting the dish together. Geralt returned her smile and dug in.

He was surprised to hear the bedroom door creak open behind him a few minutes later. Yen shuffled in, dressed in a simple robe and with her hair tousled, though she'd at least scrubbed the remnants of the previous night's makeup from her face. She noticed the contract at once and stood at the table silently, reading it over, before nodding in approval. "Excellent. Marlene, would you please fetch a quill?"

"I don't recall saying I'd sign this," Iorveth cut in, but Marlene was already out of the room.

Yen sighed and sat next to Geralt. "What more do you want, Iorveth? You'll have enough coin to live comfortably. And you like the work, clearly."

Iorveth shrugged. "I did what Bearach asked me to. I have no desire to work for dh'oine."

"If you're waiting for Anna Henrietta to name a new elven king, marry him and fill Toussaint with the laughter of pointy-eared children, I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed. This is as good as it gets."

"Yes, I've learned better than to expect justice from your kind," Iorveth muttered before shoving another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. He seemed to regret the words before he'd even swallowed, though, and shot Yen a furtive, somewhat contrite glance. Yen raised her eyes to the ceiling, but said nothing.

Marlene returned with a quill, ink, and a third bowl. She hovered over them for a moment, but the sudden tension in the room didn't go unnoticed, and soon the three of them were alone at the table again, eating in silence.

The front door creaked open and Geralt looked up, expecting Barnabas-Basil. It was Ciri who stood there outlined by the bright morning sun, however, something slung over her shoulder. "Have you seen Dandelion? He wasn't at the inn this morning." Her eyes swept the room, taking in the contract and the lingering annoyance on Yen's face, and she hesitated in the doorway, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"He's either in the Beauclair dungeons or in the duquessa's bed. I'll check on him later. Sit down," he added, gesturing to the empty chair next to Iorveth. "Bet there's some porridge left."

"I ate at the inn." She took a few steps forward, though, and eyed Iorveth. "I see you're still considering the duquessa's offer, Iorveth."

There was something strangely forced in the cheerful way she spoke. Geralt pushed his empty bowl aside and watched them.

"Yes. Word travels fast."

"It does," Ciri agreed. "And perhaps faster than you think. There's something I must show you." She slipped the object from her shoulder — a scroll case, gilded and bearing the Black Sun — and from it produced a length of scroll covered in spidery Nilfgaardian script, which she placed on top of the duquessa's contract. She cleared her throat and straightened her spine a little, suddenly looking much more like the heir to Emhyr's throne. "This is a decree guaranteeing certain privileges to elven refugees from the Northern Kingdoms who choose to settle in Toussaint."

Geralt looked down and saw the jet-black seal of the var Emreis house, right alongside the duquessa's green grapevines. He felt like he'd missed something important. He stared at the upside-down Nilfgaardian, his mind blank, and had to drag his eyes off the writing and back up to Ciri, who was still talking. "— with full immunity from legal repercussions from the North, and a two-year tax reduction for those able to take over the farmsteads and vineyards that have stood abandoned since last year's attack. There will also be empty plots of land to distribute, should enough people come."

Iorveth was frowning, his eyes fixed on the scroll.

Something clicked into place in Geralt's head, and it felt oddly like a betrayal. "This is why you're here," he said. "You were discussing the terms with Anna Henrietta."

Ciri nodded.

"Thought you'd really gone to kill some centipedes the other day."

"Well, yes, I also did that," she replied, a sheepish smile breaking through her serious facade.

He shook his head. She'd be a terror once Emhyr stepped down. "You could've _told_ me. Us," he corrected himself, looking at Yen. Yen, who did not seem the least bit surprised by any of this. "... You knew."

"Geralt," she said, sadly. "The future empress of Nilfgaard does not take quaint holidays in Toussaint at her leisure. Half of Anna Henrietta's guard is from the capital — I'd wager Emhyr knew about Iorveth the moment his presence was reported in the duchy."

Ciri confirmed her suspicions with a short nod, and Iorveth finally looked up from the decree. "And you think I'll be happy to sit here while Nilfgaard uses me once again for their political maneuvers?"

"No, I think you'll be clever enough to seize the opportunity. The decree will go into effect regardless of what you choose to do, but you can help save elven lives. Go North with this," she said, gesturing to the parchment, "and come back with whoever will follow you. They won't trust a Nilfgaardian envoy, but they'll listen to you."

Iorveth snorted in distaste. "So I should encourage the Scoia'tael to flee the North with their tail between their legs? Yes, lovely. I'm sure they'll all be thrilled at the idea of making wine for inbred dh'oine until Nilfgaard needs a scapegoat again."

"Then by all means, Iorveth, keep shaking your fist at the Northern kings!" Yennefer cut in exasperatedly. "Thousands more elves will die before Emhyr rides in to clean up the mess."

Ciri pulled a chair over and sat down. "I know you have no reason to trust him, but the Emperor has never approved of the way elves are treated in the North. He simply saw an opportunity to better their situation and help the duchy recover at the same time."

"By offering immunity to Scoia'tael? The North will fight you over this."

Ciri laughed, and there was the future empress again, speaking with the full force of Nilfgaard's armies behind her. "Let them try."

"You overestimate your own importance, Iorveth," Yen said. "If the North cared about a single prisoner of war who escaped years ago, they would've come for you already. I expect they'll be glad to have you and your squirrels out of their hair. I know I would be," she added in a mutter.

Iorveth shot her a glare, but seemed to be out of arguments. He stuck his spoon into Yen's bowl and stole a mouthful of porridge, his eyes on the decree again.

"Where do you _put_ it all?" Yen sighed even as she shoved the bowl closer to him.

"A bank account in Zerrikania," Iorveth retorted, scowling. That startled a laugh out of Ciri, and even Yen had to crack a smile. Geralt had the distinct feeling that it was the warm food and comfort of Corvo Bianco, rather than the decree, that would win Iorveth over. The dream in that crystal hadn't involved living in the forest like an animal or risking his life on pointless raids, after all, and that had been years ago, with the Scoia'tael in much better shape than they were now. He wondered if Emhyr had been clever enough to know that, clever enough to give Iorveth a way to bow out of the fight without wounding his pride.

Yen drew him out of his thoughts by squeezing his hand. "Talk some sense into him, will you? I have some letters to write. Ida will want to hear of this." She stood and touched one hand to Ciri's cheek, bending to kiss her forehead. "Well done, darling. Emhyr will be pleased."

Iorveth worked on the remnants of Yen's porridge in stubborn silence. Geralt tried to think of a new angle; politics weren't going to work. He cleared his throat. "You like it here."

Iorveth eyed him as if wary of walking into some sort of rhetorical trap. "Yes," he replied slowly.

"You've wanted a home for years."

Geralt was getting dangerously close to voicing something that had been hanging in the air between them for the past couple of weeks without ever coalescing into words, and Iorveth seemed to realize it; he tilted his head, one fingernail worrying at the wood grain of the table, then shifted his attention to Ciri. "I suppose you understand the Elder Speech as well."

"Enough to get by," she replied modestly. "I don't mean to intrude. I'll leave you to—"

The front door was pushed open again, with much more gusto this time. "Good morning, friends!"

It was Dandelion, sporting not one but two spectacular black eyes, still clad in the garish green silk from the previous night. Geralt sighed. "Morning. Never made it to jail, huh?"

"Ah, Ciri, you're here too. Hello!" There was a particular spring in his step Geralt recognized only too well from other morning-afters. "Don't be absurd — my little weasel is all bark and no bite. Of course she wouldn't send me to jail." He plopped down into Yen's abandoned seat, the floral stink of the duquessa's perfume wafting from his skin. "But I knew you'd be worried about me, so I decided it would be best to stop by and prove that I am in fact alive and well."

"A barking weasel," Ciri said, grinning. "Will the palace require the services of a witcher?"

"Guess they didn't cover mixed metaphors in bard school."

Dandelion pursed his lips pensively. "Hmm. All wiggle and no—"

"Stop." Geralt held up one hand, refusing to entertain whatever mental image Dandelion had been about to conjure into his mind. "How did _you_ wiggle out of it, anyway?"

He launched into the tale, and it wasn't long before Iorveth rose from his chair, clearly in no mood for Dandelion's antics.

"— but after she'd smashed that vase over my head I had slipped one of the flowers up my sleeve, you see, and— Iorveth, are you leaving us? One moment, my friend, I have something for you." He started patting himself down and rifling through his pockets. "I rode through the marketplace on my way here, and some jewelers were selling most curious little charms. They said it was for good luck, but, well... a-ha, here it is." He slid a small silver charm across the table.

Geralt craned his neck to see the runes engraved into the metal. _Ludovic fucks goats_ , written in the shaky hand of one unfamiliar with the Elder Speech.

Iorveth stared at it, brow furrowed, then broke into the kind of laughter Geralt had rarely heard from him. It didn't last long, but mirth lingered on his face as he pocketed the charm. "Idiots."

Dandelion looked proud of himself. "Yes, I thought you'd appreciate the sentiment, though I do wonder what prompted it."

Iorveth offered no explanation and turned instead to look at Geralt. "We'll speak later," he said quietly, then headed out of the room, still smiling to himself. Geralt tore his eyes away as Dandelion started speaking again.

***

It had been a very long time since he'd heard Iorveth's bird call, but the faint trilling sound dragged him instantly from sleep. He raised his head and found his and Yen's bedroom still shrouded in darkness, broken only by a small, very faint orb of warm orange light that floated above her side of the bed. She was sitting next to him with her nose buried in a book. Geralt rubbed his eyes. "Did you hear that?"

"Hmm? No... I haven't heard anything."

He shifted closer and threw an arm over her lap, pressing his face into her hip as he tried to figure out whether he'd dreamt the sound. She was still in the dress she'd been wearing earlier, her newfound interest in stone-shaping magic having apparently kept her up until... He cracked one eye open, eyeing the dark square of sky visible through the window. Not dawn, but close.

Yen lowered one hand from the book and rubbed at his forearm. The bird call came again, and her hand stilled. "Oh, is that him?"

"Yes." He sat up, pushing off the covers, and reached for his clothes.

He found Iorveth sitting under the same tree he'd collapsed under weeks ago, eye up to the lightening sky, gilded scroll case lying in the grass next to him. He waited until Geralt settled by his side with the tree trunk at his back before speaking up. "You still come when called. Good wolf."

The hint of humor in his voice was promising. "Only for the right master," Geralt replied good-naturedly. "Been thinking all night?"

"Most of it."

There was no use trying to pull the thoughts from his head. Geralt sat in silence, listening to the chorus of crickets around them and watching the sky turn purple where it met the horizon. There was a chill in the air, harkening the end of the summer, and soon Iorveth leaned a little closer, curling his fingers into the curve of his elbow. "Tell me why you're here and not on your Path."

"Got tired of being asked to kill monsters for the wrong reasons. And getting pulled into wars I had nothing to do with." He looked toward the dark house, where Yen lay reading on their featherbed and Marlene would soon be up to bake them fresh bread, and shook his head at the noble picture he'd inadvertently painted of himself. "That's part of it, anyway. Can't say I mind not sleeping on the ground or surviving off dried meat and berries, either."

"I'm loathe to abandon my principles for the sake of a soft bed and a steady supply of food."

"You're not abandoning anything. You'll save hundreds of elves with that scroll."

"And there will be thousands more I won't save."

Geralt had spoken of the trip north as an inevitability rather than a possibility, and Iorveth hadn't corrected him. That felt like progress, so he spoke on. "Not like you were going to save them, the way things were going. Haven't seen you restore any of the elven ruins in the North, either. Take the comforts that go with it. You've earned them."

"Perhaps." He stayed silent for a moment, gazing over the vineyard. "Though it seems to me I'm merely taking advantage of the comforts _you've_ earned," he added, nodding toward the house.

Geralt took a deep breath. "Plenty of room in there. You're welcome to stay once you come back."

"Yennefer—"

"Yennefer won't mind. Especially if you keep asking her for fancy spellwork. Keeps her busy."

He snorted. "She said you'd have to renovate the estate. A proper laboratory, another bedroom—"

"Yeah, yeah, and Nilfgaardian bathrooms with running water. Heard it all before. Don't see why not, if the wine sells well this year." He turned to look at Iorveth, who still looked somewhat reluctant, frowning and hunched over slightly as if he carried the future of his entire race on his shoulders. Something tightened in Geralt's chest. Emhyr would've laughed to see him, sitting shoulder to shoulder with the last of the sad monsters he'd so predictably collected on the Path, but he leaned closer all the same, his lips to Iorveth's ear. "I love you. Stay here."

The admission softened Iorveth’s expression a little, and he leaned his head back against the tree trunk, eye closed. "Were it only a matter of love, wolf, I would've ridden with you from Loc Muinne and straight into the jaws of the Wild Hunt. There's more at stake here than my feelings for you."

He'd switched to the Elder Speech, and as usual sounded oddly poetic, his tone softer than when he spoke Common. Geralt sighed. "I know. But you've done more for your cause here than you have hiding in the forest with Roche on your heels."

Iorveth didn't react, and Geralt thought it best to stop pushing. The stars had dimmed overhead by the time the rustling of grass broke the silence. Ciri was walking their way, a covered basket dangling from one hand, dressed simply in a black tunic and trousers that made her skin and hair look ghostly pale in the grey morning light. She reached their tree and yawned hugely in lieu of a greeting.

"Breakfast?" Geralt asked, nodding toward the basket — he could smell the food. Iorveth raised his head and eyed Ciri, letting his hand slip from Geralt's arm, but said nothing.

"Yes. Yennefer said you'd be out here." She sat in front of them and reached into the basket, bleary-eyed, hair falling into her face as she spread out the meal. Marlene had tried to give Ciri a taste of home, from the looks of it; the flatbread and thin slices of cold pork were more Nilfgaard than Toussaint.

They ate largely in silence. Or at least he and Ciri did; Iorveth shook his head mutely at the food, though he did accept the skin of watered down, honeyed wine Ciri handed him.

"Cold meat and sweet wine for breakfast, huh? Emhyr's turned you into a proper Nilfgaardian," Geralt teased, sitting back replete against the tree and watching as Ciri picked idly at the last piece of bread, lying on her side in the grass. She would've looked right at home on the absurd couches they insisted upon using during meals, but she scoffed at the remark.

"I very much doubt that, judging by the way Mererid follows me around tutting at everything I do. Too much Kaer Morhen in me, I suppose. He says I'm as much of a barbarian as you are." She stretched one arm out and took the wine skin from Iorveth. "You're not saying much today, Iorveth. Still considering the offer?"

Iorveth heaved a sigh and shook his head before replying. "No. I'll do it."

"Good," Ciri replied. "This will benefit everyone."

"Provided my unit hasn't been murdered by dh'oine _and_ decides to follow me," he said with even less enthusiasm.

"Where is your unit?"

"They were hiding in the woods near Novigrad, last I saw them."

Ciri nodded. "I'll take you there — it's as good a starting point as any other. You can gather up whoever will follow you, and spread the word as you make your way back to Toussaint."

"I don't need an escort," Iorveth sneered, "and certainly not a Nilfgaardian one. Marching in with a Black Sun banner in hand won't win you many friends among the Scoia'tael, as I'm sure you realize."

"You misunderstand," Ciri said, brushing off his tone. "I will take you there personally using my powers. It will take but a few seconds. Then I'll leave you. The Emperor expects me back in the capital soon."

"Your powers," Iorveth repeated, blank, and Geralt jumped in to explain.

"Ciri can travel anywhere she wants. Like in Dandelion's song about the Wild Hunt — he wasn't exaggerating."

Ciri chose that moment to demonstrate: she flickered out of existence, leaving only crushed grass and the empty basket behind, and reappeared right in front of them, sitting cross-legged. Iorveth twitched in surprise, then frowned at Ciri, obviously unenthused by this new mode of travel. "... Very well."

"It's nothing to be scared of," Ciri said, all innocence. Geralt saw right through it. "I'll go inform Yennefer of your decision; she'll be glad to hear it. We can leave tomorrow. You should get some rest." Another _whoosh_ and she was gone again, for good this time.

Iorveth frowned more deeply at the empty space where her body had been a moment ago. "You surround yourself with terrifying women, Geralt."

***

It was as if the shadow of Nilfgaardian machinations had fallen over Corvo Bianco, disturbing the idyllic peace that had settled over them since Bearach and his spirits had been quieted. The estate came alive with uncharacteristic activity — messengers running off with Yennefer's letters, Damien himself riding in to collect the signed contract, a farrier clanging away at new shoes for Iorveth's horse, and some of the farmhands' children giggling and whispering under the kitchen windows, drawn in by the smell of baking waybread. Even the peacock seemed to know something was afoot; it lay in the grass within eyesight of the estate, tilting his head this way and that as if trying to puzzle it out.

Iorveth, quiet and withdrawn from lack of sleep (Geralt's fault, this time), had run out of energy by mid-afternoon. He sat at the small table on the balcony, dozing in the sun with his chin in his hand and a plate of honey-drenched cakes in front of him — a parting gift from Marlene. His packed bags occupied the chair next to him, and his weapons were propped up against the balustrade. Nearly ready to leave, though he hadn't bothered with his armor and headscarf yet. Geralt approached, considered the second chair for a moment, then simply sat at Iorveth's feet and leaned his head on his leg.

Iorveth breathed in sharply, jolted from sleep, but said nothing. After a moment, his fingers found their way into Geralt's hair, and he rubbed at his scalp slowly. "Thought vatt'ghern couldn't feel sadness," he muttered.

"They can't." Geralt caught himself trying to commit Iorveth to memory — the scent of his skin, the smell of smoke and of the forest floor that clung to his bags, the warmth under his cheek — and frowned at how obvious the lie felt.

"I'll be back soon enough. I've done far more dangerous things."

"I'm not worried, either." That, at least, was true. Even the Blue Stripes, or whatever was left of them, would think twice about harming the bearer of an imperial decree. Geralt looked over the estate through the balusters. The farrier was done with the new shoes and stood next to his anvil, patting the back of Iorveth's horse. "Do you know Éibhear Hattori?" he asked, glancing up.

"The swordsmith? Yes. We tried to recruit him some months ago. He wants nothing to do with the Scoia'tael."

"Tell him I sent you."

Iorveth sighed, but nodded. "Anyone else?"

"No. Whoever you can." He rubbed his cheek against Iorveth's knee, finding a more comfortable angle. A bright magenta speck on the road to the estate caught his eye — Dandelion was coming. He closed his eyes instead of warning Iorveth, unwilling to move. The fingers in his hair and warm sunshine on his face lulled him into a near-trance, and when he opened his eyes again Dandelion was in front of them, looking at them with a very particular, faraway look on his face, hand twitching against his leg as if touching the neck of his lute.

"Don't you dare," Geralt said.

Dandelion blinked at him with an attempt at doe-like innocence, though the effect was rather ruined by the yellowing bruises around his eyes. "I'm merely working on a piece about the plight of the elves, my friend," he replied. His hand twitched again, rhythmically, and he hummed a few notes of what would no doubt become some sweeping romantic epic about the Scoia'tael commander who'd laid down his weapons and reclaimed elf land peacefully with the witcher who'd softened his heart. _Ass_. Emhyr was probably paying him to do it, too. "Ciri will be along shortly. She had some loose ends to tie up at the palace."

Iorveth's hand ceased its stroking, and he nudged Geralt away before standing up. He disappeared into the house and Dandelion took his place. He stole a cake, then shot Geralt a sly grin and patted his own thigh invitingly. Geralt grimaced and leaned against the balustrade instead.

"This has been a rather pleasant few weeks, hasn't it? I know your heart is aching from having to say farewell to both of them at once, Geralt, but it may make you feel better to know that I've decided to extend my stay in Toussaint while I work on my new piece."

"My heart doesn't _ache_ ," Geralt grumbled. "And the guest bedroom's free, I guess."

Dandelion leaned into his field of vision, elbows propped on his knees. "They'll be back, you know. I'm sure of it. Ciri will find another pretext to visit you soon enough. And Iorveth, well—"

Iorveth came back out before Dandelion could finish his thought, hands busy with the thick blue sash he was tying around his waist, over his armor. Geralt hadn't missed seeing him like this, the layers of leather and cloth covering up the lines of his body, making him look like he was already back in Redania. Geralt handed him his weapons mutely, then watched as he checked his horse's tack and strapped his belongings to its saddle.

Yen emerged from the house a few moments later, soon followed by Ciri, who popped into view near the well that stood at the center of the estate. "Come say goodbye," Yen said like she was chiding him, offering him her arm. He stood and took it, letting himself be led to Ciri.

She grinned when she saw him and gave him a hug that ended too soon. "Thank you for indulging me. I'd missed being a witcher."

She still wore simple traveling clothes and eye makeup too thick for court, but this close, he could see that her earlobes had been pierced, and she wore a subtle perfume made of something so expensive he couldn't place it. She'd probably be Empress by the time he saw her again. "I'll miss you," he managed to say around whatever had suddenly lodged itself in his throat.

She squeezed both his hands, then turned away as Iorveth pulled his horse closer by its reins. "Hello, pretty girl." She ran her fingers through the feathers and ribbons braided into the horse's mane, smiling, then laid her hand on its shoulder, and they were both gone.

Iorveth blinked, left standing with one hand in the air. He let it fall back to his side and looked at Geralt, but it was Yen he addressed in the end. "I never thanked you for the healing spells. Or for..." His gaze jumped between the two of them as he hesitated. "... for welcoming me into your home."

Yen rolled her eyes and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. "It's a little late to worry about that, don't you think?" She lowered her voice. "It's your home too, you stubborn fool of an elf."

Iorveth nodded stiffly against her shoulder, and she drew back, holding him at arm's length. "Don't get yourself killed. Toussaint is a much more exciting place with you in it."

Iorveth smiled at that, but before he could reply, Ciri stumbled back into view, her shirt smeared with dirt, leaves stuck in her hair. She grabbed at Iorveth's arm, steadying herself. "Well, that surprised her a bit. She's fine now," she added. Her grip tightened. "Are you ready?"

Iorveth's eyes met his. Geralt imagined, for one irrational moment, scouring the North with him to gather up mistreated elves, sharing a musty bedroll and living off dried meat and cheap tavern fare. "Yes," Iorveth said. He and Ciri disappeared in a flash of green light, and Geralt shook the thought from his head.

The estate was already quiet again, save for the faint chatter of the farmhands in the distance, over the hill and out of view. The spicy-sweet smell of the waybread and cakes lingered in the air, heavy and cloying with no bitter pipe smoke to counter it. A light breeze came blowing in from the east, tousling his hair, and he reached up to find his ponytail undone and his hair tie gone.

Iorveth must have taken it.

"Geralt, you look like a lovesick bear."

He frowned down at Yen. She'd been teasing, but her smile was beautiful, and gentle, and something eased in his chest. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Not funny."

"Oh, but it is. You must be the very last person on this estate to realize how desperately you care for him."

"Mm. Guess you were right."

"Geralt of Rivia, falling for a man. Of course I was right." She slipped her arm around his waist and leaned into him. "Well," she said after a moment, "once you're done staring stoically into the distance, do join me inside. We've got renovations to plan."

She went, and he wondered at his luck, watching the back of her as she headed into the home his convoluted Path had somehow led him to sharing with her. And with Iorveth, too, because he _would_ be back — in the spring, perhaps, hungry and weary from the Redanian winter, with all of his ties to the Northern Kingdoms severed and hundreds of elves following in his wake. Suddenly Geralt wanted little more than for his home — _their_ home — to live up to the vision from the dream crystal, and he nodded resolutely to himself before following Yen inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I would like to humbly submit [the following visual aid](http://vivianlawry.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/sad-bear.jpg) for lovesick bear Geralt.
> 
> Secondly, this story is in many ways a love letter to Astolat's amazing Witcher fic, without which I would never have attempted something like this. Can't recommend her stories enough if you enjoyed mine at all. I must also give her credit for the idea of Emhyr becoming Dandelion's patron, which fit so cleanly into my little headcanon that I had to include it here.
> 
> Lastly, a fun fact: The ancient elven alcove tucked away on a ledge near the palace gardens does in fact exist in the game, though I changed the appearance of the statue to fit my story. It's a really intriguing little spot and I love that it was included there for basically no reason other than to highlight Toussaint's elven history. Fire up the game and check it out if you didn't run across it during your playthrough.
> 
> Comments make my day -- I'd love to hear from y'all. Or come say hi on tumblr (otterintheflightdeck). :)


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